


Backward Glances

by harmonyfb



Series: Backward Glances [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:05:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 31,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harmonyfb/pseuds/harmonyfb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Dangerous", post-Season 7. Set 30 years after the events of the previous story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

They were happy, for a while. He should have known it wouldn't last.

She still insisted on patrolling. Old habits die hard, apparently, so every other night they took a turn around the closest cemetery, spoiling for a fight.

Spike loved these nights best, familiar and sweet, her hand in his, and the prospect of real fights, hard fights, with her at his back, by his side. With or without fights, they usually wound up shagging there, her spread-eagled on top of a tomb or among the blossoms left for the recently dead.

That night wasn't anything different; the two of them striding through the graves, coat fanning out behind him, Buffy wearing next-to-nothing and high-heeled shoes. Could have cut yourself on how sharp they looked - dangerous and beautiful and ready to brawl.

He let his eyes slide over her as they walked, moonlight picking out the curve of her breasts through the sheer white top she wore.

Buffy caught his leering glance and stopped to preen in the moonlight. "Like my new blouse, I take it?"

"I'm not sure you can call it a blouse, love. Doesn't it actually have to cover your body? I don't think a wisp of transparent silk counts. Looks more like a scarf to me." He ran the flat of his hand over her nipples, dark and stiff.

"I don't hear you complaining, do I?" she asked, coyly.

He closed his hand around one breast, leaned into her. "Don't know about that, love. Don't think I like you showing off what's mine."

"Fuck you, Spike," she said, pushing him off her. "You might have sired me, but you don't own me. You never did, and you never will." She turned, escaping his grasping hand, and sprinted towards the gate without a single glance back.

In retrospect, he should have known.

***

It came on so gradually, he was almost the last to know. Maybe it had been there from the start, and he just hadn't noticed - mind too full of Buffy to pay the least bit of attention to his shell-shocked soul. But eventually... eventually he felt it.

Started with twinges, really, just stray thoughts that left the strangest feelings in his gut, a tic in his cheek. The first time one of Buffy's temper fits nearly took his head off, for example, and he wondered what the Watcher would know about other Slayers that had been turned. Or when they'd found that talisman in a victim's pocket, and he'd said aloud that they should take it back to Willow to find out what it was. Buffy'd given him a snide look and said, "Yeah, that's a good idea, Spike, except you weren't smart enough to turn her so you could ask." She'd been aggravated by the inconvenience, though he'd been right - she didn't miss them.

But _he_ did.

Well, not Harris, to be honest, but the rest of them. He'd known them, what, four, five years out of 150, and yet, he often saw their faces in his dreams, thought of them, and when he saw their likeness in a potential victim, they always seemed to get away. Couldn't figure out why, for the longest time.

The first time he dreamed of the witch, he knew. A stupid dream, no phantom visitation or prophetic vision, just a dream. Sitting in the kitchen of the Summers' house with Willow, drinking coffee while she worked on her laptop, quiet, friendly. He bolted awake, heart in his mouth, and he knew.

That strange feeling in his gut? It was _guilt_. His soul waking up from its long repression. The beginning of the end.

***

Reading was just another way of putting off the inevitable. Wasn't even a good book, really, which was a happy coincidence, seeing as how he was too hungry to really concentrate. Just a distraction, was all. Distract him from hunger and from the deep-down joy over the thought of a meal.

"Spike?" Her voice rang from the back of the apartment; he could hear her heels clacking on the wooden floor. She must have overslept, she was usually looking for him way before now.

"Yeah, Bit - in here." Spike glanced up from his book as she came through the door. All dressed up tonight - filmy white top, short black skirt with the tops of black thigh-highs peeking out. He caught glimpses of her white, white thighs as she walked. Bright, bubbly, all tarted up like she was trying to mimic the big girls, and failing miserably. He smiled a bit - she'd always done that. These days, of course, it was just an act.

"Going out, love?"

She nodded, absently, setting her foot on the arm of the couch to check her stocking, affording Spike a straight view up her skirt, where honey-colored hair curled around the edges of a silk thong. "I'm gonna go eat, and then I hear there's a new dance club down on 4th." She rummaged in her bag, pulled out a lipstick and eyeliner. "Do me first?"

He ignored the teasing lilt in her voice as he rose to take the cosmetics from her. "Where's the rest of it?" he asked, opening the pencil.

"That's it," she said. "Tubercular is the in look right now. You know, white skin, dark eyes, red lips from coughing up blood?" She grinned, and then obediently opened her mouth for lipstick application. Then she stepped back, did the once-round for Spike's practiced eye. "How do I look? Like a pining heroine?"

"More like a kinderwhore."

She laughed, a girlish exclamation, and ran her hand over her breasts coyly. "If you're good, Daddy Spike, I could be." She laughed again, and turned to go. "Sure you don't want to come with me, Spike? Please? We'd have a really good time - dancing, hunting. I'll even let you beat me at pool." Her lip extended in a little pout, as she waited in the door for his answer. He made a show of thinking, pretended to be absorbed in his book. She sighed impatiently and flipped her hair, and suddenly he was back in the Summers' house, years before. That awful summer, when Buffy was gone, and all he had left was her kid sister. He couldn't place the memory: Dawn begging for something she couldn't have or shouldn't have. The old pain flared bright in him for a minute, and then it was gone again.

"You go ahead, sweet. I'll catch up."

He watched from the window till she was out of sight. He'd have to hunt, too. Couldn't put it off another night. Hunger was already tearing at him, making him shaky. It was like this every time. He was already awash in a sea of blood; why should his soul care about one more on the pile? He kept staring into the darkness, wishing. Briefly considered the butcher's, but given how they'd reacted last time he came home smelling of pig's blood, he didn't think he could risk it. He'd already lost Buffy; he couldn't lose Dawn, too.

In the end, of course, he went out. Had to eat sometime. Had to keep strong, take care of Dawn. Took a different path than she did, riding his bike to a different part of town, where the normal folks didn't go. Fidgeted as he drove up and down; he'd had his eye on a drug dealer for a few weeks. One of the few who didn't stink of an addiction, and who did a brisk business when the cops weren't driving past.

No one gave him a second glance; Spike often cruised this strip, pretending to buy drugs. The dealers were used to seeing him now, nobody thought twice about him anymore. He told himself that if he had to kill, this was the best way to do it; rid the world of these parasites. One parasite taken out by another, seemed fair.

He finally saw the guy - big Leon - doling out favors in a vacant lot. Took a while for the traffic to die down; Leon was a busy boy. Muscular and tall, draped with gold necklaces that showed he wasn't scared of getting robbed. He was a badass, and even that tough neighborhood knew it. He waited till Leon was leaning back against a tree, half-lost in shadow, before he killed the bike and sauntered over. "Hey, hey, blondie, whatchoo want?" Leon called, rolling into his spiel before Spike was anywhere near him. Spike shuffled his feet and mumbled something low. Fuck, he hated playacting. Finally, Leon leaned in to hear, and Spike saw his chance. Grabbed him, quick twist to end it, and dragged him behind the tree to feed.

The boy was warm, his skin soft and well-oiled, and for a moment, the blood washed away all Spike's doubts, all his guilt, all his emptiness. There was only pleasure, the welcoming of senses, and an end to his terrible hunger. _Hunt. Kill. Feed._

And then it passed, and he was left alone with the body.

He stripped as much from it as he could, ate till he could take no more; every day he could go without feeding was another person that got to live. After it was over, he laid big Leon on the ground, face down, so those accusing eyes couldn't stare up at him. He went through Leon's pockets carefully. Nearly $ 3,000 and change, plus the handful of gold around Leon's neck. That'd pay the rent for a month or two, though it wasn't as much as he'd hoped.

The drugs he left scattered 'round the body. Let the scavengers have it. God knows he wasn't in any position to judge self-destructive behavior, not when he'd made it into an art form. He paused, thought maybe...maybe he should say a prayer over the dead man, but the words stuck in his throat. He couldn't imagine God would listen to anything he had to say.

Wearily, he climbed back on the bike, and turned towards downtown. Tried not to think of the body. Tried to convince himself again that he had picked him because he was a parasite. The wad of cash in his pocket said otherwise.

***

The club was full and smoky. He eased in, checking faces and exits. He didn't see anyone he recognized. Not that any of them would have spoken to him if he had. He was bad luck walking, as far as they were concerned. Those that didn't remember him from his demon-killing days now knew about the soul - Buffy had made sure of that. Acted like they thought it was contagious. Or maybe they were just afraid of _her_.

He slid into a corner booth, wiped his mouth discreetly as the waitress came over. He could still taste the boy's skin on his lips. He ordered Jim Beam and a beer chaser - anything to take away the taste of yet another murder.

Anxious, he scanned the crowd, looking for her. Too many people; when he did finally see her, it was only in glimpses - a flash of thigh, a flick of her shiny hair, waving hands. She was dancing right in the thick of things, shaking her ass like mad in front of a frat boy who thought he'd got lucky. Poor bastard.

As he watched, the music changed abruptly; fast to slow, and Dawn sidled up next to the boy, brushing her body against his, smiling. Laughed at something he said, the boy's lips just touching her ear, her hand tangled in his hair. A cold feeling crawled over Spike. Couldn't shake it, couldn't stop looking.

His drink arrived, but he didn't touch it. He was suddenly anxious for Dawn to come to the table, wanted her to smell the kill on him, to know he'd hunted, hear his unspoken, ongoing litany: _see what I'm willing to do for you?_

He rose from the table, headed closer to where she moved dreamily to the music. Was she only hunting? It had been long time since he'd seduced his ( _victims_ ) prey, but he knew it was easier on the girls if they did. Didn't much like it, though. Never did.

He threaded his way through the dancers, eyes fixed as much on Dawn as he could manage. As he came 'round the last couple next to them, he noticed two things: Dawn's skin was pink - she'd fed already - _and frat boy's hands were on her ass_.

Rage exploded inside him, his mind providing snapshots of him stomping the boy's chest till he died, choking the air out of him, ripping his throat wide open. Git would never know that he owed his continued existence to the three-year shelf life of some government microchip. Fucking Initiative might have taken everything else away, but it had given him self-control.

His hands twitched, wishing for tender skin to break. In a low, threatening voice, he said, "Get your fucking hands off her."

The couples around him looked up, startled, and backed quickly away from the naked malice in Spike's voice. Everyone, that is, except the couple being addressed. Dawn was doing it on purpose, the little bitch; he didn't know what the boy's excuse was. Didn't care, either.

He grabbed one offending arm in a crushing grip, and jerked so hard that Dawn went spinning off into the crowd. "Are you fucking deaf?" he bellowed. "I told you to get your hands off her!"

The kid began try and wriggle out of his grasp, sputtering threats. Behind him, Dawn was complaining. "Geez, Spike, rude much? Jimmy and I were just dancing, you didn't have to--"

"Shut it, Bit," he snapped. "I'm talking to the boy here." He twisted Jimmy's arm to the side, testing. So easy just to snap it. So damn easy. So satisfying. His thoughts must have been clearly visible on his face, because the frat guy had gotten very, very still. No bluster now. He had suddenly realized just how _dangerous_ Spike really was.

"Sorry, man," he babbled. "I didn't know she was your girl. We were just dancing, and she never said she had a boyfriend." He looked imploringly at Dawn to bolster his story.

"Oh, did I forget to mention Spike?" Dawn giggled. "He's not really my boyfriend, he just kind of fucks me sometimes. Oh, and he _thinks_ he's my dad."

Jimmy gaped at her for a moment before appealing once more to Spike. "Come on, man, I won't go near her again, I swear. Lemme go."

Spike jerked the boy's hand up in front of his face, showing where his wrist was already blooming purple and black. "If I ever catch you touching her again, I'll cut it off. Understand, shithead?" He let go suddenly, and the boy fell on his ass, scrambling back from the dance floor, then running for the door, cradling his injured arm.

Dawn stood scowling, hands on her hips. "Thanks for ruining my night, Spike. Now I probably won't be able to come in here anymore."

"Yeah, that's a big loss. Get your crap, we're leaving."

Dawn bitched nonstop all the way to the table, and lingered so on the way to the door that Spike finally took her arm and pushed her out into the alleyway. "What the fuck did you think you were doing?" he demanded.

"Me? I was just dancing. You're the one who made a big production out of it." She glanced slyly at him and said, "You ran Jimmy off, and I was thinking about turning him. He was so damn hot."

He moved so fast she barely had time to notice before she was slammed against the wall, his fingers 'round her throat. "You’re _my_ girl," he growled. "I won't share you. Got it? You turn that prick, I'll kill him, and I'll make you sorry you ever laid eyes on him."

She rolled her eyes, and loosed an impatient sigh; just as though she was still that frustrated 17-year-old. "Yeah, whatever, Spike."

His voice held all the menace he could muster; he could feel her shaking beneath his hand. "I mean it. You belong to me. I won't have you getting cozy with the cattle. Understand?"

He stared into her eyes for a long moment, vibrating with anger, jaw clenched and fingers tight on her slender throat. And then, she laughed.

"Yes, Daddy," she said, sarcastically. Licked her lips, then, and opened her thighs to enclose his hip. Let a teasing tone enter her voice as she pressed against him. "Ooo, you're sooo sexy when you're all manly and jealous, Spike." One hand ran over the small of his back, the other reached up to trace patterns on the back of his choking hand.

When his hand loosened to grasp hers, she raised her head to kiss him, her free arm snaking 'round his neck. He could taste blood in her mouth, sweet and tangy; she pressed harder against him, and for a minute he forgot everything but his arousal. Broke the kiss to stare down at her, eyes beginning to darken with need.

Beautiful and deadly and not afraid of a goddamned thing, not even him. She was all the things he shouldn't have - death and blood, theft and gleeful destruction, and, on top of it all, his lover's kid sister. Even without a soul, he'd seen her as forbidden territory. Every time he touched her, that delicious wrongness made it hotter, kept him gasping and clutching at her for more. It was worth feeling dirty, after.

Now... now she was really was his, his only one. Not forbidden anymore, not really, except for the murder on her lips.

He remembered the first time she'd slipped into his bed, her little hands pulling at him, eager and inexperienced. He'd shoved her away, told her to piss off, and remembered her storm of anger afterward. She'd cried for days, whined, refused to leave her room, shouted and screamed and thrown things until Buffy finally pitched him out of bed, snapping, "Oh, for god's sake, just go fuck her so she'll shut the hell up!"

Won't matter how long he lives, he'll never forget her face when he went in to her, her surprise and eagerness, the clumsy way she tried to seduce him, whispering dirty words that sounded like she was trying on clothes two sizes too large. Nor would he forget how sweet she was, how ready to please; unsure, but completely uninhibited, as unlike Buffy as she could have been.

He looked at her now, all confidence and artifice, but he still tasted the sweet girl underneath it. She'd never belonged to anyone else, and she never would. He'd marked her good, with fangs and lips and prick. Didn't matter that Buffy still burned white-hot in his heart; Dawn would always be his.

He chuckled at her hungry expression, his anger melting away as always. So whipped he was. "That how it is, sweet?"

She lifted her face for another kiss. "That's exactly how it is, Spike," she said. She grabbed his hand and drew it beneath her skirt, between her moistened thighs, and pressed his fingers into her, rocking them gently, mmm-ing under her breath while she moved her fingers over his own.

Advantages to the schoolyard whore look, he thought idly, and leaned to brush his lips against hers, slow, and soft and thorough, deepening as he pushed further and further in, gently caressing all - Wait a minute.

He stopped; stilled his hand and pulled his head from hers to stare accusingly. "Where the fuck are your panties, Dawn?"

Another giggle. "In my purse, asshole. I took them off when I saw you come in the club." She craned her head up to tongue his ear and whispered, "I figured you'd want to fuck right after the fight."

Couldn't help it; it startled a laugh from him. "You did it on purpose. You *planned* it, you bitch."

"Yeah," she smirked. "So are you going to do me, Spike, or are you just going to scowl at me all night?"

"Say it first." His teeth nipped along the curve of her neck, but his hands were still. "You're mine, and you do what I say. Say it." He rubbed his thumb slowly over her clit, matching the gesture with his tongue, just below her ear. She moaned, one leg falling wide.

"Oh, god, Spike." She pushed up towards him breathlessly. "You know - fuck - you know I don't want anybody else. I was just teasing."

Good enough, he guessed. He slipped his other hand inside her blouse - no bra, either - and plucked her nipple hard, felt her knees threaten to give way. Nuzzled along her neck, little kisses here and there, whisper-soft. "That's my good girl." He thrust three fingers hard inside her, made her gasp. "You do what I say. That means nobody but me touching you. That means you stay out of this dive, and you stay away from those college boys. Understand, Dawn?"

He could hear the acid in her voice as she replied, "Fuck you - I'll do whatever I want!"

In the space of an eye blink, his fingers slid out, and he was two steps away from where she sagged against the wall. "Do yourself then, I'm off home." He turned and headed for the bike.

"Dammit, Spike!"

He smiled at the whine in her voice, and smiled even more broadly as he glanced back at her: skirt hitched up around her hips, one milky tit hanging half out of her blouse, her face awash in more than sexual frustration. "Want to hear it from your sweet little mouth. You are mine. You'll stay the fuck away from whoever I tell you to avoid, right?"

She nodded sullenly, but didn't speak.

"Didn't hear you, pet. What was that?"

"Yes, godamnit. I won't go near any more icky boys." He could practically hear her teeth grinding. "Now get over here and fuck me."

He sauntered back to her, touching her with the barest fingertips. "Whose lips are these?"

"Duh - mine." He raised an eyebrow in inquiry, and she rolled her eyes. "Yours."

Rubbed his thumbs across both nipples, lowered his head to her ear. "And whose lovely tits?"

Sigh. "Yours."

Shoved one hand hard between her legs, caught her clit between his fingers. "Whose wet, pretty cunt?"

"Fuck! Spike, come on! Yours, yours, yours, OK? Just - oh, come on, I'll do whatever you want, just - Oh!"

He twisted harder, felt her buck against him, his dick twitching in response. "I know you will, pet. Just like hearing you say it, is all." Now he'd stopped teasing, gentle tugs on her nipples growing harder, more insistent, fingers thrusting against her, kisses timed to match the rhythm of his thumb along her clitoris, growing harder by the minute as she whimpered and rolled beneath him. Been a while since he'd fucked her right out in public; the thought was unbearably sexy. Considered different scenarios as he worked her; he'd bring her off this way, first, and then he'd fuck her till she screamed, right here in front of god and everybody. Pull it out and never mind the people streaming out at closing time, and never mind that sunrise was on its way, make her suck him off against the wall, yeah, yeah. She shuddered and cried out, clutching at his shoulders, her legs tight around him, and suddenly - suddenly, he was rocketed back to before, to the alley outside the Bronze, back before the soul, before it all, Buffy's legs wrapped around his waist, her constant moans as he pounded into her, and the delicious fear that her friends would find them, and -

He was suddenly sick to his stomach, couldn't tell where the guilt ended and the sorrow for her began, and his erection was gone, gone, gone. Hid his face against Dawn's hair - please god, don't let her see. She nibbled at his neck, her hands beginning to roam over his back, and he jerked away from her touch. "Come on, Bit. Don't fancy it in the alley, myself. Let's go."

She shrugged; whatever, she was used to his moods by now. "Your loss," she said, with a toss of her head. Climbed on the back of the bike with him, and held on tight. "Mmm," she said, snuggling up against his back. "I swear, your jealous fucks? Best I've ever had."

That hunger for possession surged upwards in him again. "I'd bloody well better be the only fuck you've ever had."

Her laughter rang out loudly as they headed for home.

***

He stayed awake for a long time after sunrise. Wandered from room to room nervously, smoked one cigarette after another. Dawn hated the smell - he was sure to get an earful tomorrow - but it was soothing, familiar, a holdover from when he knew who he was, what he wanted.

The bottle of bourbon he kept in the kitchen was a constant temptation, but he'd learned that it no longer aided sleep. These days it simply made him maudlin, and that he could definitely do without.

He walked endless circuits of the flat, peeking in at Dawn where she lay, sleeping. She lay utterly still, face half-buried in the pillows, one slender foot sticking out from under the giant comforter she hogged all to herself. He wished he could sleep like that again. Hadn't had a decent day's sleep in - well, since before Prague, anyway. He leaned against the door, smoking quietly, wishing he could give her more. She deserved more - more than a fucked-up excuse for a vampire who couldn't love her, not like she loved him. And, on the heels of that thought, the whispering knowledge that what she really deserved was to be a 50-year-old with a husband and children and maybe grandchildren on the way. Not - not to be damned, like him. He pushed the thought away from him, too late now for second thoughts.

He crushed the smoke out against the sole of his shoe, and stripped wearily. Slipped back under the covers, pulling her unresisting form onto his chest, wrapping his arms around her tight. "I'm so sorry, love," he whispered.

"Shut up, Spike," she murmured, sleepily.

His dreams were seldom pleasant. Too many awful memories, too many bad decisions, too much waking time spent pushing bad thoughts away. Good dreams were few and far between, coming only in glimpses - chatting with Joyce, Drusilla's sweet kisses, Buffy smiling softly at him - and all of them carried their own little aftertaste of pain. And those dreams that once upon a time he'd have thought were brilliant, those were the worst. Dreams of his glory days - blood and bone and tortured screams - were slideshows of memories that he didn't want to watch. Watching meant he'd wake in tears that had to be hidden from Dawn, so she didn't find out how weak he really was.

Lately, his dreams were all of Buffy, which meant they were very bad, indeed.

_He didn't know where she had learned it. He knew she'd always had a cruel streak. Felt it often enough the year she came back - fists and feet and words as sharp as broken glass. But he never thought she'd pick up the taste for torture on her own. Maybe it was his fault. He'd been caught up in Dawn, newly in his bed, waking him in the evenings by crawling in beside him, naked, bringing him awake with mouth and hands._

_He thought Buffy liked it at first, found it exciting, but soon she started hunting early, going out by herself without waiting for him. Didn't like that at all. One night, he told her to wait, pushed Dawn away, and left the bedroom to find her gone. Had gone after her, angry, craving her company - hell, she was the one who wanted him to shag Dawn in the first place - couldn't help that the girl liked it, could he?_

_He had smelled the blood in the cemetery blocks away; stomach growling in response. It quickened his steps; if he got there fast enough, they could feed together, maybe hunt again - after they went at each other a time or two. All sorts of pleasant diversions ran through his head as he pushed open the door of the crypt._

In his sleep, he grimaced, his hands tensing 'round Dawn's waist.

_The crypt looked like an abattoir. Blood everywhere, walls and floor, and all over Buffy, specks marring her hair, her skin. She was bent over something when he walked in, he couldn't see - and then she turned. She fairly beamed, all cheerful smiles, happy he'd come after and left Dawn behind. He was so struck by her delight that he almost missed what lay beyond. It had been a man - he was fairly sure - though it was hard to tell now. Every inch was covered with gouges, marks, blisters. She must have been at him for hours, maybe days; too much blood spilled on the floor for her to have fed._

_His stomach knotted desperately; he couldn't look away from the scene, the ropes which held the victim peeking white here and there (or was it bone?) through the red and black of marred flesh, and the little pile of skin laid so carefully beside the chair._

_"Spike!" Buffy ran to kiss him, hot with longing, lips cold as the grave and tasting of death and, god help him, he responded, aroused and hungry and fondling her greedily while they kissed. His hands roamed over her breasts, slipping in the blood, making sketches on her skin. And he would have fucked her right there, everything would have been OK, he could have pushed the image from his head like he had so many others, except…. Except the ruined thing behind them moaned. It - he - was still alive. Hours and hours and maybe days of…this, and still able to feel…?_

_"Huh." Buffy released him to peer down at the horrid thing. "I thought it was all played out." She bent to pick up a wicked-looking knife, covered in blood and bits of skin, offered it to him sweetly. "You want a turn?"_

_He couldn't help it, couldn't have stopped it. His soul, so long in disuse, rebelled, took his stomach with it. He couldn't remember flying from the crypt, dropping to his knees in the dying grasses, vomiting what little his body had. Incoherent prayers flew from his lips, and he couldn't stop. He lifted his head to see her, disgust written in every line of her body, staring balefully at him from the doorway of the crypt._

_That night, for the first time, she refused to sleep in his bed._

***

He was pulled from sleep by a familiar sensation. Warmth encompassed his groin, sliding, wet - half asleep, it jostled loose a 30-year-old memory, long-treasured; the feel of Buffy's mouth around his dick, the sight of her little blond head between his legs. His first thought was, She stayed. And then, of course, the realization that he was dreaming, must be dreaming.

Lips felt real enough, warm and slick, tongue sliding around him, beneath him, long slow sucks up and down. He reached his hand down to touch silky hair, soft skin. Moaned a little as he gave himself over to it, fuck, who cared that it was a dream? Murmured, "Don't stop, please," hands grasping blindly, when the movement stopped, but then it was hotter than ever, harder, pumping him with hands and lips and swirling tongue, until he cried out in release.

A smile curled his lips, eyes still blissfully shut. Hadn't had a dream this good in years. "Oh, god, Buffy, I love you," he murmured.

When the pot full of hot water smashed him in the face, he knew he hadn't been dreaming after all.

"You motherfucking bastard!" The lamp was next to go, littering their bed with broken glass. If he hadn't been intent on ducking the ashtray, he might even have appreciated the irony.

Dawn was angrier than he'd ever seen before, game face twisted in rage, tears streaming down her face. "You. Fucking. Asshole! You thought I was her?"

He caught her arm about to upend the dresser. "Dawn! Thought I was dreaming, pet. You know, back when. What else would I think, girl? Since when is your mouth warm?"

Her demon slid away, the tears coming even faster. "Buffy used to say that's all you talked about, how much you liked it, so I got some hot water, and thought I'd wake you up nice, and maybe you'd actually want to be with me, instead of just hanging out somewhere away from me all night!"

His heart sank. She had noticed. "Dawn, sweet, I don't - "

"Like hell, Spike! When was the last time you went hunting with me? Or went anyplace with me? I thought maybe you just were, I don't know, bored or something, but it's her, isn't it? Doesn't matter that I'm here, does it? You still want that cunt -"

The slap surprised them both, echoing through the apartment, staggering Dawn with its force. "Don't you ever fucking talk about her that way, " Spike hissed.

"Fuck you, Spike." Her tone was shrill, and her voice hiccuped with sobs. "I'll say whatever I want to about that bitch. She may not be your girlfriend anymore, but she's still my stupid goddamned sister." Dawn jerked herself from Spike's grasp, took two steps to the closet and pulled down a suitcase, tossed it to the bed, and starting filling it with clothes.

He looked on in shock; she was leaving? His chest cracked wide, a desperate, tearing pain that threatened to drag him down. His voice crackling with emotion, he shouted, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I'm getting the hell out of here. You don't want me. Maybe I'll go stay with Diane and those other vamps over on the East side; I hear they've got a big house." Fat, angry tears poured off her cheeks as she packed.

"Don't be stupid; you'd be lucky if they didn't kill you for associating with me." He leaned against the door, carefully. Now she was just being ridiculous.

"Then maybe I'll go stay with Buffy and dickhead. At least they don't kiss my ass while they're hating me."

That arrow hit its mark; it was all he could do not to beat her till she was silent. Stood there, fists clenched, trying to steady his voice. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

He didn't see the shoe flying at him till it was nearly too late. "You fucking liar. _You're mine, Dawn, I love you, Dawn, stay with me forever, Dawn_. You didn't mean any of it, you asshole. You never wanted me. Yeah, I get that now. So I'm out of here, and you can pine after the Bitch Queen all you want." She slammed the lid down on the suitcase, made to lift it off the bed.

He tore it from her grasp, set it sailing across the room. "I'll show you what I want," he said, and kissed her. Pulled her hard enough to bruise against him, tearing at her clothes, panting in her ear. She wouldn't leave him, not if he could stop it. Whatever she needed to make her happy, he'd do it, he'd say it. Pulled apart her blouse to grasp her breasts, nipples already hard against his palms, and pushed her toward the bed. Screw the broken glass. Tipped her over and pinned her hands to the bed as he shoved inside her, demon rippling to the surface as he fucked her. "Feel that, Dawn?" He thrust deep, and she moaned for him, gutteral noises that made him want to live inside her. "It's hard for you, petal, not for some phantom in my dream, for you. All for you. Want you, and I'll have you. Forever, hear me?"

"Yeah - god, Spike - harder, do it harder." Not one for poetry, his girl, but she knew what she wanted. Pushed back against him, coaxed him on, to thrust harder and harder, till he buried his fangs in her shoulder, and came, crying his pleasure into her flesh. Heard her answering shout, from pleasure, pain, or a mixture of both.

He wouldn't lose her. He wouldn't. Not ever, and especially not to them.

After, he gently licked her shoulder, pulling her down to spoon with him. Whispered to her, "Stay, sweetheart. You know I love you, always want you, want to give you want you need, precious. I swear, I'm yours." He laced his fingers with hers, lifting their hands to his mouth, kissed each knuckle in turn.

He ran one hand along her thigh, over her labia, along the gentle swell of her belly, and up till he brushed her face, so hopeful. He just had to give her a little more; he could do that. He was sure he could do that. He closed his eyes and buried his face against her, arms wrapped tight around. Said, "When we're done, we'll go have a nice kill together, yeah?"

She snugged back, smiling happily. Knew where she was, where she belonged. "OK, Spike. Can we go out dancing, too?"

"Yeah, that, too, love." Whatever she needed. Worth his soul, if he could give her that.

"Spike - "

Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by the shrill sound of a cell phone, ringing on the dresser. Spike tensed, staring down at her worriedly. "Dawn? Who else has the number for your cell phone?"

She pursed her lips, and looked away nervously. Finally, she answered with a sigh, "Buffy."

The ringing went on, insistent and loud. It had been years since he'd spoken to Buffy, and the thought that he could be the one to rise and answer it, hear her honeyed voice again? Fuck. Too late for second thoughts.

Finally, Dawn made as if to get up, and Spike gathered her tightly against him. "Screw her. It's not important. You can talk to her later." He kissed her sweetly, rubbing his face against her hair. "We've got places to go, you and me."


	2. Chapter 2

Two hours later, they’d sorted most of the wreckage and made their plans. Dawn was bouncing around to whatever crap music she was into this year, happy to be reassured of his devotion. Spike smiled when she glanced his way, stole kisses when she passed too near. He was still wary of her mood - she was related to Buffy, after all, so she could turn on a dime - but he felt better. Clearer. Knew what needed doing, knew how to do it. It was what he did best - take care of his girl. Didn’t matter that he didn’t burn for her, did it? She was his, wanted him and nobody else. Past time to stop wanting what he couldn’t have.

He got up and headed for the shower. Leaned against the wall, letting the water sluice over him, trying to make peace. Dawn needed him to kill, he'd kill. He might be damned, but at least she wouldn't be alone.

When he came out, she was already dressed, tarted up in an outfit she knew he liked, red leather and black laces, tall black boots making her tower over him. Could see every inch of her, the pants were so tight. He came up behind her, ran his hand appreciatively over her ass. "You look tasty," he murmured.

"You would know," she replied with a grin. She swept her eyes over him, frowned a bit. "You're not going to wear that, are you?"

"What I always wear." He glanced down at his clothes - black denim, cotton, leather - and shrugged. "What's wrong with it?"

"You've been wearing it for what, 60 years? That's what's wrong with it."

"Found what works and I'm sticking with it." He strode to the door, holding out his hand to her. "Let's go, pet." She rolled her eyes, but followed.

When the cell phone rang again, they were already on their way downtown.

***

She'd picked a fetish club; open late. It sat in what might have been a seedy district, if there'd actually been any businesses left in the empty storefronts all around. In the back of his mind, Spike gauged the suitability of each one for use as a lair - been awhile, but there was always the possibility that they'd have to leave the apartment in a hurry. Always had a backup plan, just in case. That was the one enduring lesson he'd taken out of Prague; he'd never let his woman get hurt like that again. He wasn't a fool; he did learn from his mistakes. Sometimes.

The bike coasted to a stop 'round back of the club. It was relatively early, but the place was already packed; the music vibrated through the bricks. In the old days, they'd have gone in and just hunted right inside, propping their victims in the corner, or shoving them into a bathroom stall. In the old days, he and Dru never stayed anywhere very long. Dawn wanted to stay here, they had to be more careful.

The shadows were thick a few streets away, empty streets and abandoned shops meant plenty of hiding places - and plenty of parking. They didn't have to wait long for the club crowd to spill one street over. They were already moving when the doors of the car opened up, clasped hands swinging.

The couple getting out of the car didn't even notice them, at first, or didn't consider them a threat. Either way, they looked like a safe bet. The woman climbed out first, bunching up her skirts as she stepped up onto the curb. She stood, waiting, dangling a collar and lead from one hand. The man took a minute to get out, stooping to lock the doors. Much taller than she was, he looked massive under a long, black duster. Spike smiled. "Nice coat."

Startled, the guy looked up at him; probably hadn't heard them walk up. "Thanks." His gaze flicked over Spike and Dawn, and he relaxed a bit. "Same to you."

In a conversational tone, Spike said, "Hey, we're looking for this club - friend sent us down here, and we got all turned around. Dawn, sweetheart, what's the name again?"

" _Decay_. Do you know where it is?" She teetered a bit on her heels, pretending to lose her balance. "Whoops. Not used to these boots, yet." The small woman smiled at her.

"We're headed over there, actually. Hang on, let me hook up Sabine's collar, and we'll walk you over," the big man said.

"Sabine? Nice name. I take it you're Griffin, then." The couple spared him a blank look. He didn't know why he tried, nobody ever got his bloody references.

"Uh, no, actually, I'm Fred."

"Yeah. I'm Spike, and this is Dawn."

"So this is your first time down to Decay?" Sabine asked Dawn.

"Yeah," Dawn lied. "Sounds like fun."

"It is; they've got really great music, and everyone wears the most wonderful clothes."

"I can see that." Dawn smiled. "I like your corset." She ran a finger over the thick green-and-black brocade, up to where Sabine's nipple peeked over the top, not quite brushing the silver ring that pierced it. "Did it hurt?"

"The piercing? Nah, not really."

Dawn smiled to herself; _it would in a minute_.

Fred finished hooking the lead around his girlfriend's neck, and glanced curiously at Spike. "So, you get your coat around here? I bought mine over at The Closet before it closed, but it's just a copy of an older kind. Take a while for me to rough it up. Yours looks great, though - is it vintage?"

"That it is," Spike said. "Been a bitch to keep it supple, the last few years, but worth it, I suppose." He slid Dawn a sly wink, let a smirk play over his lips. "Lot of memories in this coat."

"So where'd you get it?"

"Off a girl."

"Oh." Fred took in the hungry look passing between Spike and Dawn, and quickly moved to go. "Well, if you're ready, we'll walk you over." He turned and stepped away from them, Spike falling in behind him to block his view of the women. Just like riding a bike, he supposed.

Talking with Spike, thinking of fashion, Fred missed Dawn's whispered question to his girl.

"Aren't you afraid something might happen?" Dawn tilted her head and leaned closer, finger still hovering near the edge of Sabine's bodice.

"What, you mean, like it getting infected? One of my girlfriends had that happen - she said it hurt like a bitch, but antibiotics cleared it up. She didn't have to take the piercing out, or anything. You thinking of getting one?"

Dawn laughed. "Me? No way. I'd be afraid, that, you know, something like...this would happen." Lightning-fast, her fingers grasped the silver ring and pulled. Hard. There was a gasp, a wet, tearing sound, and Sabine loosed a terrible cry as Dawn's hands grabbed her and pulled the gushing nipple to her waiting mouth.

For one long moment there was no sound but the sucking of Dawn's lips, and then Sabine began to scream. She twisted and struggled desperately, feet scrabbling back against the curb, but Dawn's teeth were firmly lodged in her breast, and Dawn's hands held her wrists like iron, and she couldn't get away.

Spike was mesmerized by the scene; it had been a long time since he'd gone hunting with Dawn. He'd forgotten how strong and inventive she was. He was still staring, awestruck, when the larger man pushed past him and grabbed hold of Dawn. He jerked her from her victim, wrenching a wound in Sabine's breast, blood pouring down the bodice and turning the figured cloth to black. Dawn's lips and chin were shiny with blood, and she laughed as she stumbled off the curb, tongue flicking out to lick away the traces.

"What the fuck's wrong with you?" Fred bellowed, reaching again for Dawn's arm, his fisted arm swinging towards her. She wheeled around, blood-stained, grinning, her eyes glittering wildly in the faint glow of a nearby streetlamp. Not the crazy chick anymore, but a monster.

"Fuck!" To his credit, Fred didn't let go, but his swing gave way and his momentum faltered. Too bad for him, either way. Dawn struck him full across the face, and he went sprawling on the pavement, blood spraying from his nose. The scent was thick in the air, and Spike shivered with hunger. Dawn got there first, straddling him, pinning his arms, settled in a lover's crouch over his body. She drew one hand back, licked the man's blood off her fist, and remarked noncommittally, "She tasted better."

Spike realized with a start that he'd forgotten the other one, still there by the car. Still screaming, too, hoarse and incoherent sobs as she pulled her skirts up to try and staunch the blood pouring out of her wounded breast. She'd bring the neighborhood in a minute, with that noise. Spike jerked his head toward Sabine, and called out, "Shut her up, Bit. I'll get this one."

Fred, still struggling, tipped his head back, saw Spike's face shimmy and change. He grew still and small-looking, and shouted in a shrill, desperate voice, "Sabine! Run!" It penetrated the woman's fog of pain, she gave a start, and finally saw the faces peering at her in the dark. She ran.

"Shit! Spike, I can't run in these damn boots! Get her, quick!"

Didn't have to tell him twice. He lit out after her, following her footfalls, loud as gunshots, and the blood trail she left as she ran. Behind him, he heard Dawn's lilting voice, saying, "You know, I _really_ like your coat."

Sabine didn't make it a block. Fear and shock and blood loss outstripped the adrenalin rush, confused her, made her weak. Running blindly from the car, she unknowingly headed away from sanctuary, away from the club, the mass of people, from life and light and witnesses she might have roused to fight. Instead, Spike tracked towards the center of the dead zone, empty buildings and empty streets. He found her crouched down behind a dumpster; could hear her shaking breaths from the street. Hunched down small, so small, arms wrapped tight around her knees, trying to be oh, so quiet.

Spike's body was vibrating with excitement, the blood smell, the chase, too long since he'd been back on the hunt. Right this moment, the soul took a backseat to his need. Stood smiling in the alley's mouth: no where for her to go. His boots crunched loud against the filthy pavement as he walked slowly up the alleyway. No one for blocks, except Dawn, no way out for the girl.

So intent she was on being unseen, she didn't even flinch when he rounded the dumpster. He stood over her till her terrified eyes focused on his face. She got even smaller, sobbing, hands clutching her filthy costume. "Please, no, no, please, just - I swear, you can, please, just don't hurt me. No, no, no."

He could smell the salt tang of her tears, all but invisible there in the darkness. Took a step forward, licked his lips. She flinched then, scuttling back against the wall. Her voice raised desperately, trembling, "Fred? Fred?"

"He's dead, love."

She shoved a hand against her mouth, muffling the incoherent chant, "Oh god, oh god, oh god…"

"Don't worry, love," he said smoothly. "You will be, too."

He reached down for her, mouth watering, demon singing inside him. How long had it been? Too long, far too long. His fingers closed around her arm, and Sabine managed to rasp out one whispered sentence, as though she was afraid to say it too loud. "Why? Why are you doing this?"

_Dawn's in hysterical tears, wild eyes taking in the bodies lying everywhere, and she's too frightened to call for Buffy, afraid Buffy's already here, still and cold, she whispers to him like she's telling him a secret. "Why, Spike? Why are you doing this?"_

_"She needs me," he whispered back. "She wants me this way. Don't worry, pet, we won't leave you." And then he killed her._

The memory slammed into him, broke through his hunger and his bloodlust and the part of him that was enjoying the pain, and wrenched a sob from his chest. Fuck. Found that he'd fallen to his knees beside the woman, and it wasn't only her face stained with tears. Gently, he reached out a hand, cupping her ruined breast like a lover, and closed his eyes. Stroked his thumb across her face, wiping away her tears. "I'm so sorry, Dawn," he murmured. "Sweetheart, you didn't - didn't deserve this."

Beside him, Sabine had gone perfectly still, eyes wide, body rigid. Spike gave a little shake, and focused on her again, and he leaned close to whisper mournfully to his victim. "I'm sorry. I have to take care of her, see?"

Then he was at her throat.

She cried out, her blood bursting hot into his mouth, his tongue hungrily catching the drops which rolled towards escape. She struggled uselessly against him, already weakened but alive enough to cry. Her blood was sweet and hot; and the pleasure of the kill was so much better with live, struggling prey growing quieter and quieter. He bit harder, and suckled furiously, till she was still, his hand still closed around her breast.

And then the bloodlust left, and he was cradling a corpse as if it were Dawn. He flinched back from the thought, forced himself to lay her down, rearranging her blood-soaked skirts, closing her eyes. His hand shook faintly as he touched the cooling flesh, but he didn't falter. Stood and wiped his mouth, licked the traces from his hand. He drew a long, shaky breath to steady himself, and reached for a smoke. Just like riding a bike, you didn't forget how to kill. But he didn't look at her face again, as he lifted the body into the convenient dumpster. Just an empty shell, that's all. He turned on his heel and headed back to Dawn.

She was leaning against the car, stolen cigarette dangling from her lips. The body was gone, only rusty-colored blotches here and there testified to what had gone before. "What took so long?" she asked. "You find her?"

"Yeah." Spike crushed his cigarette out beneath his boot, and looked around. "So where is it?"

"Where's what?" She smirked, taking a long drag off her cigarette. "Oh, him? I called him a cab and thanked him for a really good time." She rolled her eyes. "Where do you think?" She gestured over her shoulder. "In the trunk."

Oh. Of course. "You have any trouble getting him in there?"

"Nah. Didn't put up any real fight, either. I like it better when they fight back."

Spike snorted, remembering the coat and the tough-guy air. "Poser."

Dawn rose from the car to clasp his hand. "Can we go dancing now?" Her eyes sparkled above her pretty pink skin.

He smiled, drawing her to him for a lazy kiss. Let her taste the fear in his mouth, know that he'll be what she needs. Then he heard the muffled thump coming from the car. He frowned down at Dawn, making doe eyes at him, pretending she hadn't heard anything. "He's dead, isn't he?"

She shrugged carelessly. "I dunno. Maybe. Who cares? C'mon, Spike, let's go." Dawn made to head down the block, Spike grabbing her arm as she turned.

"Maybe? Well, maybe we'll get caught, then. How stupid are you, woman?" There were even more sounds coming from the trunk now, moans and scratching and bloody hell, it'd be noticed in a heartbeat the first time somebody walked by. "Keys," he demanded.

"They're inside the trunk. Sorry." She didn't look sorry at all.

Spike ground his teeth. "Go pop the trunk, then – these types always have internal controls. Do it."

Obediently, she walked to the driver's window, peering in. "It's locked," she said, innocently.

"Then break the fucking glass before I use your head to do it." She acted like Harmony to make him insane, he was sure of it. Knew she wasn't that damn stupid, but one day these stunts were going to get them in serious trouble.

Dawn giggled, and shattered the glass. "I love that sound," she said happily.

Fred – wasn't that his name? – lay curled inside the trunk, groping weakly against the carpeted interior. As the lid opened, and fresh air poured in, he raised his head, eyes glazed, but hopeful. The hope faded as he saw Spike.

Round his throat was a necklace of bite marks, each deep and painful, as if they'd been worried, like a dog with a bone. Impossible to hide those or make them look like stab wounds. What the hell was she thinking? Spike grabbed the man's chin and lifted, ignoring his sounds of pain and feeble warding gestures, so he could look more closely. "Bit," he began, warningly.

"I got bored. You took so long, and I didn't know if you'd want some, so I just kind of played for a while." One hand on her hip, she looked completely disinterested. It probably wasn't a pose.

"You can't leave them like this. I've told you. We'll have to move – you want that?"

"Oh, come on, Spike." Dawn strolled around to peer over his shoulder at her handiwork. "It's not like there's a Slayer in town or anything. They're just people, what's the big?"

"There will be a Slayer, if you keep advertising long enough. Just people - they're easy on their own, yeah, but a mob?" He shivered faintly at the memory of Dru, covered in wounds, bones jutting from her chest, her intestines spilling out onto the road, crying to him in that horrible, hopeless shriek, _Spike, please, it hurts, it hurts_ – "It is a big deal. Just ask Drusilla."

He lifted Fred partially out of the trunk, trying to get leverage to snap his neck. Past time to put him out of his misery. As he pulled back, the faint glow of the streetlight glinted off something shiny at his mouth. Fuck. He nearly dropped the victim, whipped around at Dawn, growling. "You tried to turn him, you bitch."

Her eyes were wide now; she knew that voice. He wasn't teasing anymore. "N-no, Spike, I swear, I didn't. That's his blood. Look, look!" She darted forward and picked up the man's wrist, showing Spike where she'd bitten a long gash. Then she held up her own, unmarred. "See? Told you, I got bored. That's all, I swear. Don't be mad, Spike, ok?"

The rage dropped away from him, leaving a sickness in its wake. He set his jaw. _Got to be what she wants_. He didn't bother to say he was sorry before he broke Fred's neck.

***

The club was packed, wall to wall. The air was thick with smoke and heat, like a furnace opening onto the street. Spike and Dawn passed through easily enough, no one sparing them a second look. What they wore wasn't worth a passing glance in this place. The smell of the place was overwhelming, intoxicating. Sex, and perfume, and blood somewhere, and pounding music like an external heartbeat. His fingers tightened around Dawn's waist, as he steered them towards a corner.

"I'm going to head to the bathroom," she shouted. "Clean up a little." She waved her blood-stained fingertips for emphasis, and he nodded. Dawn squinted at his hands, and said, "You should, too."

She was right, of course. He slipped in the gents, quickly and furtively washed the blood from his hands. It swirled black down the sink under the fluorescent lights. Another tick against him. Another life on his conscience. He was glad he couldn't see himself in the mirror.

Came out with Dawn nowhere to be seen. How the girl could take so long when she couldn't use the bloody mirror was beyond him. He flagged down a waitress, got a beer, settled himself against the bar to scan the dance floor. Plenty of interesting folks, wearing interesting things, none of which interested him. He was so focused on searching for Dawn's red-and-black that he missed them the first few times. Just another queer couple, dressed in ridiculous Spandex costumes, swaying against each other to some relentlessly upbeat number. Probably so drunk they didn't realize it wasn't a slow song. His lip curled in a sneer, but...he found he couldn't stop looking. One man had laid his head alongside the other's cheek, smiling with a faraway look that suggested nothing else in the bar could hold his attention. Periodically, his partner would rub his face into the man's hair, just the smallest of lover's touchstones. Their hands were intertwined, palms fit easily together, and their other arms encircled one another's waist. They were perfectly relaxed, content with one another, lost in their own world. In a moment, the song ended, and they pulled reluctantly apart. Gazed at each other tenderly, and with such utter joy - Spike's chest tightened, and he felt the prick of tears. He'd had that, once upon a time, with Dru. Didn't realize he still - still craved it. Part of him wanted to run to them, force his way between them, wanted to be part of that belonging. Part of him wanted to slash them open and watch them die.

He drank his beer, and looked away. Tried not to wallow, he really did. That was one of the traits he'd always hated about that great weepy git, Angel. But full of stolen blood, the tang of the girl's fear still on his tongue, the sorrow dragged heavy on him. He stared resolutely downward, no intention of making moon eyes at a couple of –

"Spike? Earth to Spike, hello?"

Startled, he looked up to find Dawn right in front of him, hands on her hips.

"'Bout bloody time you got back." He settled back against the bar and gestured to the bartender for another round.

"I've been standing here for at least – hey!" She glared at the single bottle of beer. "Get me one, too!"

Spike took a long pull, flashed a smirk in her direction. "Get your own."

"You jerk, you know they won't serve me cause I look 15. And it's all your fault, anyway. You could have waited two years to turn me, but noooooo..."

"Waited two years, the world would have ended, and you'd still not be drinking."

"Smart ass." She leaned over to snatch the beer from the bar. He chuckled as she tipped it back and grimaced. She still drank like a teenager.

Smiling, he plucked the bottle from her fingers. "Let's dance."

She pulled him out into the mass of bodies, crammed so tight into the tiny space that it was as though they were all moving in a single motion, the undulation of waves across a sea. As she began to move, her tension, anger, all that balled-up spoiling-for-a-good-fight energy just flew - she relaxed into the endless motion of the crowd, hips and hands waving wildly to the beat. Smiling, she danced as close as she could, their bodies brushing together with every pulse of noise. Spike thought maybe, maybe this was what she really wanted. The realization hit him like a thunderbolt - hunting was just something she played at, something she did so she could get to do this every night.

He'd never liked crowds when he was human, - too many opportunities to be preyed upon - and his years as an outcast soured him on demon company. He marveled at how Dawn fit so perfectly into the scene, confident and happy. He couldn't remember seeing her look this way. He wondered what else he'd missed because he'd been too busy to --- Dawn's hand shot out to grasp his arm, pulled him closer to focus his attention back on her. When he looked, really looked, her eyes were bright and her mouth wet. She set her body in a long, rolling motion, her fingertips tracing a path from her neck to her groin. She dropped her gaze to watch her fingers slide lazily over the tight leather, tongue barely peeking out from between her lips. Then she deliberately raised her eyes to Spike's, and mouthed "Want me?" under the pounding music.

God, he did. Reached for her, pulled her hard against him, replaced her hands with his own, both of them still moving to the rhythm of those around them. Their bodies slid together, tantalizing friction where their groins pressed together, and Spike could feel her nipples harden through the thin leather, and she moaned in his ear, hands running over his arms and waist and chest, when the music moved them apart. He set his mouth against her ear, and she shivered when he finally spoke. "I want you, kitten. Now." He pulled away, just a bit, to see her staring at him as though he were the only thing that existed, the other dancers forgotten, and the rhythm lost. The look was so familiar, so haunting. It took him a long moment to realize that's how he used to look at Dru. She loved him.

He raised one of her hands to his mouth, laid a kiss square in her palm, and smiled his most dangerous smile before he pulled her from the floor. The lovers who Spike had envied didn't look up from their dancing when he and Dawn brushed by.

They hit the darkened corner like a whirlwind, hard kisses and desperate caresses, and hell, it was like they hadn't gone at each other not six hours ago, like they hadn't touched in years. Dawn pushed up his shirt to run her hands beneath it, fingernails scraping his nipples, and he was vibrating, hard, ready. Shoved a hand into her top - harder than it looked, that suit was tight as hell, and kissed her - or tried to kiss her. Her and those damn boots - she loved the things, but her three inches of extra height made sex against the wall a tricky proposition. He glanced around till he spied a table - occupied, naturally, but not for long - picked Dawn up, wrapped her legs around him tight, and carried her to it. He simply set her in the middle of the table, knocking drinks to the floor. Raised his head from hers to growl out, "Fuck off!" to the outraged patrons, game face flashing over his features. They didn't object a second time.

Thank god for the genius who invented the all-round zipper, Spike thought. All it took was two quick motions, his zipper, hers, and he was inside her. Didn't take long, the music, hard and driving, set the tempo of their thrusts against each other, wet, hard, and the teeth of the zippers scraping him as he pulled out, and his tongue parting her lips, swallowing her gasps and sighs; he forgot. Forgot it all, no sadness, no guilt, no thinking, thinking, thinking. Just the closeness of her cunt, and her skinny boot heels on his thighs, and her nipples under his fingers, and fuck, she was so beautiful, his sweet little bit. She closed her teeth over his lip, and he shouted as he came. Didn't stop moving, still thrusting, still grinding against her, till she shuddered out her own incoherent sound. They lay against one another for a long moment, bodies still shaking. Spike kissed her again, happy for the first time in months? Years? "I love you," he whispered.

She turned her head away from him, her face blank. "Liar," she said.

Spike felt his heart sink. She was slipping away from him, and soon she'd be gone. His grip on her tightened, for just a moment, and then he let her go, pulling away, closing the barriers between their skin. What else could he say that she'd believe? He ran his hand through his hair, frustration simmering inside him, then helped her off the table.

Dawn slid up under his arm, snuggling against his hair. "It's ok," she said calmly, "at least you still want to fuck me."

"Dawn," he began, his voice catching in his throat. "Don't. You're --" She was out from under his arm and moving away before he could finish. What else could he do but follow after?

He found her back at the bar, drinking his beer with that funny wrinkled nose that didn't seem so funny anymore.

"I was talking to Marie." Her eyes were still fixed on the dance floor and its endless motion.

"What?"

"Marie. That's what took me so long to come back from the bathroom. Marie and Charlotte were here. They said - " She pursed her lips, took another swallow. "They asked me if I'd heard from Buffy. They heard she and the dork had grabbed this weird shaman-y type back in LA. Guy's got a lot of power; maybe something about an apocalypse? They figured I might know. Guess that's what she was calling about."

He'd forgotten. Made a screwed up sort of sense, he supposed. "Sounds like her, Bit. Been too long since their last brush with oblivion, I suppose. Your sister always was addicted to the drama."

Dawn snorted loudly. "That's for sure. It's always _look at me, I'm so special_. Bitch."

Spike trailed a finger over her lips, leaning close enough to whisper. "Let's dance some more, love."

Dawn jerked away from him angrily. "Screw it. Let's go home, Spike."

***

She held on tight to him as they rode, but her hands were still, not loving like before. Spike couldn't figure whether to be heartened - maybe she wasn't angry with him, but with her sister. They were so much alike sometimes, it was hard to see. Volatile, intense, passionate. He wasn't a fool; knew he loved them as much for the roller coaster ride as for their sweeter nature. He pressed his hand over Dawn's, briefly, as they drove through the night.

Angry or not, she didn't demur when he pressed her up against the front door frame, kissing her, caressing her wherever the leather didn't cover. Didn't stop touching her as they climbed the stairs, thighs and waist, arms and hands, stopping her at the landing to cup her breasts and lay kisses along the back of her neck. He'd ignored her too long; not again. Soul be damned, he thought with a twinge, he'd not chance losing her a second time.

They only just made it through the door before he pulled her to him, hands frantically unlacing, pausing to stroke her recently uncovered flesh. "Want you so badly, love, always want you," he murmured into her mouth. She shivered all over at his words, shoved the coat from his shoulders and ran her nails down his back. He moved his mouth from hers, whispering in her ear just how much he wanted, just what he wanted, all the things he'd do to her, with her, for her. When he slid her zipper open, she was wetter than a river. "You love me, pet?" he asked.

He felt her gasp and twitch, fluttering around his hand. "God, Spike, yeah, yes, you know I do. Please, oh, please."

Spike smiled, and pulled her to the floor. That's when the telephone rang.

They both flinched from the sound, tangled in one another, mouths still pressed together. Dawn pulled away with a sigh. "She'll just keep calling till I answer it. Bitch," she said, bitterly. Spike lay stiffly over her for another moment, and then raised up to let her clamber to her feet. He listened to the clack of her boots as she traveled to the bedroom, and then there was silence. Five minutes, ten. Worried, he followed.

Dawn was standing in the corner, the tension in her frame visible from the doorway. "Dawn? Everything all right, love?" When she didn’t answer, he crossed to her, nuzzled her neck, trailing his fingers down her arm.

"Sweetheart?"

She turned, then, face a mask of blankness, her hand cradling the cell. "It was Buffy. She'll be here tomorrow night. She wants to see you."


	3. Chapter 3

He'd expected screaming. Expected tears and shouting and a tantrum that might last for days.

Instead, she just stood there, her face a cold mask, the only sound the precision crunch of the cell phone under her boot. Her expression never changed, not when she batted away his hands, not when she pushed him out the door, and shut it in his face. Flat, empty cruelty was all he could read in her face, and it reminded him so much of Buffy that it staggered him.

He got the screaming and tears, of course, just not from Dawn.

It wasn't long before rage welled up effortlessly inside him, his frustration peaking and exploding. Hadn't he tried? Hadn't he done everything for her? He ran to the living room, snatched up the first thing that would shatter, and hurled it at the bedroom door.

"What the hell do you want from me?" he shrieked. "I've done everything for you, you bloody ungrateful bitch!" He aimed a kick at the door, expecting it to fly from its hinges, but it held. His howl of incoherent rage shook the lamp shards on the floor in front of him.

Elsewhere in the building, he could hear the murmur of voices; he'd woken the neighbors. Fuck. The last thing they needed was to face the cops tonight. He covered his face with one hand, tried to tether the rising anger. Turned smartly on his heel and headed for the disused kitchen. He needed a drink.

By the time he'd downed a third of a bottle, he was missing Drusilla. Odd how that always happened. It'd been years since he'd even laid eyes on her, let alone held her, but when he needed, wanted comfort, there she was. Couldn't figure out whether it had to do with her being his lover or his sire; didn't reckon it mattered, in the end. He closed his eyes, held the bottle a little closer. If he were still, he could feel it again, all those years when they were in love, when he'd been happy. Fool's Paradise, he supposed. Ignorant bliss. But bliss, still, and oh, how he wanted it back. Just for a moment, just for one more day. Longed for a time when he was simply what he was, no guilt to ride him, no twisted, forbidden desires to make him unnatural. He laughed sourly. One thing all the years of guilt had done - he almost had the comfort of his memories again. All the blood he'd spilled since he'd got his soul - it was so fresh and new and constant, it made his memories of Drusilla happy again. Almost.

He didn't know when he'd started crying, but it was only to be expected. Couldn't have the drink without the humiliation, could he? He sunk lower in the chair, took another slug. Damn them all, and damn himself for a lily fool.

"You're pathetic, you know that?" He hadn't heard Dawn come out, and he gazed up at her blearily. She'd shed her fierce costume and stood clad in an old t-shirt, one from before, worn and thin, the makeup washed from her face.

"Yeah. Always was, pet."

She sighed loudly and plucked the bottle from his hands. Took a sip herself and grimacing, dropped it to the floor below. "Think she'll bring him with her?"

Spike shrugged, leaning over to grope for the whiskey. "You're the one who talked to her." He craned his head over, trying to see where it'd gone, till he felt her weight settle over him, her knees hard against his hips, and her forehead resting against his hair.

"I don't want her here, Spike," she whispered.

He caressed her hair, his other hand wrapping around her waist. "I know, pet, I know." Wished he could say something to comfort her, but he wasn't sure there was anything to be said. Buffy's visit couldn't be anything good - whatever it was, it was just going to be painful for them both. "Do you -" His voice faltered, just a bit. "Did she say what she wanted, love?"

Dawn stiffened against him and turned her head away. She didn't answer.

"Dawn?" He reached out a hand to turn her face towards him, tears shining now on her face as well. "What did she say? What does she want? Tell me."

She pushed away his hand, pulled back sharp from him, grief and anger and something else warring in her features. "You, you prick. She wants you back."

The shock ripped through his body, and he pressed his shaking hand to his mouth. It tasted like Dawn's tears. "What?" Then he shook it off, the horror and the grief and that useless, yawning hope - Dawn was playing him. He shoved her hard to the floor, spat out the truth to her tear-stained face. "Tell me another one, you little bitch. Yeah, that's real funny. Think because I'm pissed, you can lie to me like that? Like I'm going to take it?" His voice rose again. Sod the neighbors.

"I'm not lying!" Dawn scrambled to her feet, her hair obscuring her eyes, arms crossed defensively over her chest. "That's what she said, asshole." She frowned, fighting tears. "I can't stay here. I can't. She'll come back, and you'll just bend right back over and let her screw you again, won't you? Won't you?" She was crying hard, now, hugging herself tight for comfort, and she looked like a frightened child, that kid hiding from Glory.

He grasped her arm, tugged her down to him, into his arms. "I'm so sorry, Dawnie," he murmured.

"Fuck you." She sniffled, her face buried against his neck, her tears sprinkling his skin. For a moment, he thought she would pull away, but then she sighed and relaxed into his embrace. Her fingers bunched themselves round the cotton of his shirt, clinging tightly to him as though he were about to bolt. "I hate you," she said. "I hate you for doing this to me."

"I hate me, too, precious," he murmured.

"You know what I really hate? I hate being Buffy's little sister. That's all I ever was, and it's all I'll be forever, thanks to you." She sniffled again, wiped her face on his sleeve. "I'm not as pretty, not as scary, not as big a badass." A note of satisfaction crept into her voice as she continued, "At least I know I fuck better than she does. Don't I, Spike?"

"Not very gentlemanly to compare, Bit."

She laughed out loud, then, genuine giggles that shook them both. "Since when were you a gentleman, Spike?"

"Since always, love. Never heard me compare Buffy to Dru, did you?"

Dawn snorted loudly. "Like Buffy wouldn't have kicked your skinny ass all over town." She leaned back her head to look up at him through lowered lashes, and placed her hand possessively on his inner thigh. "You know I'm right. I fuck so much better than she does." He felt the cool tip of her tongue trace the shell of his ear. "And I know what you like, don't I?"

She was right. "Yeah, you are better," he said. She was, and she knew it, ready to try anything, willing to do whatever he liked - things that Buffy would never deign to do - and she loved not only the chains and paddles and exquisitely pleasurable pain, but also the long, slow, extravagant fucks where they whispered sweet words and sometimes even fell asleep still joined, so that when they woke it was as if they were simply continuing instead of starting over. Even human, Buffy never -- He pushed the thought away automatically, and turned his attention to Dawn's hand, wiggling slowly toward his groin. He clasped her hand, lifted it from his thigh. "Dawn…" Meant to tell her he had thinking to do, meant to sit out here and drink till he passed out, till he didn't have to think about anything, anymore. But it all died on his lips when he saw her face; it was a mass of anger, fear, jealousy, and naked need. He knew that look, that fear - watching your lover go back to what you thought they'd left forever. It pained him to see it in Dawn. He loved her - not like the love he had for Buffy, that unrelieved ache when she had gone, the wave that turned his belly leaden and made his knees buckle - but love, nonetheless. He didn't want to see Dawn hurt, not on his account.

He didn't push her away. Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips, murmuring wetly against it, "Thought I was pathetic, love."

"Well, you are," she replied, smiling. "But maybe in bed you're not a total loser." She leaned forward to brush her mouth against his, tongue teasing his lips apart. "Come to bed, Spike."

He needed time - time to suss it out, to figure out what this meant and how he should feel, and it wasn't conducive to rational thought, Dawn's fingers tracing patterns down his shoulders, and her continuing kisses leaching the taste of whiskey from his mouth. He let himself be pulled out of the chair, out of his thoughts and self-pity, and into the bedroom.

The bedroom was lit by candles, the bed pulled back, and the lack of breakables lost in the shadows. Smiling, Dawn reached into the bedside table; the handcuffs she withdrew glittered in the candlelight.

"In the mood for a little punishment, love?"

"No - in the mood to give some," she said sharply. "Get on the bed, Spike."

He'd been too many years with Drusilla, too green when she took him. He was conditioned so by her pleasures, her quirks and needs, that the click of the handcuffs brought instant arousal. The chain ran through an eyebolt in the ceiling; enough slack to raise up on his knees, turn over back-to-front, but not quite enough to lie down. From the confident smile on Dawn's face as she tied the blindfold, he didn't think he'd be lying down for a while.

She pressed the barest kiss against him, and then was gone. He'd expected her to start strong - she usually did. Spent enough years in Buffy's shadow that she liked being on top in a way that had nothing to do with the sex. But this time, he waited, and waited, kneeling naked and blindfolded. He'd begun to wonder if she'd left, punished him by leaving him trussed up for Buffy to find. Spite always was Dawn's strong suit. But then he heard the whisper of cloth as she slipped off her shirt, and felt the press of her body along his back. Her skin was smooth and cool, her breasts soft against him as she threaded her arms around his torso.

He felt the tears on his shoulder before her heard her stifled sob. "You all right, love?" he asked softly.

"Why, Spike? It's never me. Why isn't it ever me?"

He could hear the catch in her voice, the longing that had always been there. Monks may have had enough power to make her real, but it hadn't been enough to make her secure. "Love..."

"Shut up!" Her fingers tightened on his chest, nails digging angry furrows along his skin. She sniffled, but her voice was rock-steady when she spoke, "I didn't say you could talk, did I? You're always fucking _talking_." Then she was gone from the bed, her tears drying cold on his back. When the first blow fell, he was unprepared. Jerked forward, his upraised arms pulled painfully back by the chain. She didn't pause, just kept striking, her words punctuated with blows, fierce and angry. "I hate you! You made me this way, and you still don't give a shit about me!"

"Dawn, sweetheart..." he started.

"Shut up!" She grabbed a fistful of hair, jerking his head back hard, and hissed, "If you say one more word, I swear, I'll make you sorry you ever laid eyes on me, Spike."

He believed her. After all, she'd learned it from Buffy. Once again, she struck him, arms and shoulders and back and thighs, neck and chest, and even the soles of his feet, tucked under him. Not hard enough to break the skin but too hard to sustain arousal. He let her strike where she wanted. It was only what he deserved.

He didn't know how long she hit him. His back, his arms, his hips all ached from tension and the rod. He'd learned long ago to let his mind slip away from the physical whenever there was pain to be endured. Pity he still needed the bottle to do the same for emotional pain. Dawn collapsed in a storm of weeping, huddled against his stinging flesh. Anger in about equal measure to despair, he guessed. When she grew quiet, he ventured to speak, just a whisper. Meant to console, to comfort, but what he said was, "Can't help what I feel, pet."

"Why can't you love me, instead, Spike? It's not fair - she's always - it's just not fair."

"I do love you, Dawn." God help him, he did. Loved her now, shaking against his back, loved her writhing beneath him, the whipcrack of her temper, the unpredictable energy so much like his own, but he loved her in his memories, too - the big-eyed girl who didn't know where she fit in, the braver-than-she-ought delinquent, too sexy for her own good. He'd always loved her, one way or another.

"But not as much as her."

What could he say? His silence said it all.

He felt her uncoil from his back, flinched when the tip of something sharp touched his chest. He knew that feeling too well. Stake.

"Maybe I don't want to share you, asshole. If I just kill you, then the bitch doesn't get to have you." Her voice quivered, the tip of the stake skittered against his skin.

"You kill me, you don't get to have me either, precious." He could feel her trembling, knew without seeing that she was close to tears once more.

"I don't have you now, Spike, so what's the difference?"

He ached to touch her, hold her; all he could do was hang there, helplessly. "You have got me, Dawn. Didn't leave you before, not going to leave you now. " He frowned, spat out the truth between them. "Doesn't matter how I feel about her. She doesn't want me. Never did; not really. "

Dawn sniffled, the stake falling away to the floor. "No, she said--"

"Said it to wind you up, pet. Said it because she knows how you feel - knew it would hurt both of us. She's good at that. Always was."

There was silence for a moment, and then she kissed him, her mouth opening gently against his. The brush of her nipples against him made him shiver, kissing harder as he leaned into her touch. The welts along his shoulders burned beneath her palms, but now her touch was soothing instead of angry. He wasn't sure when she reached up to release the chains, loosed his hands to draw her closer, skating over her skin. The pain and anguish and longing coalesced between them, and, when he drew back from her, she crumpled, wrung out, against his chest. He slid the blindfold from his eyes and pulled her down, settling her head in the hollow of his throat, arms tight 'round her, one hand cupping her breast, so comforting and sure. "I won't leave you, Dawn," he whispered. "I swear it."

She tugged him upwards for another kiss, and sighed against his lips. Her mouth tasted like salt.

***

There was screaming. And blood. Sound and taste and smell brought him upright, disoriented. Took him a minute to remember where he was - their apartment, with Dawn safe beside him. He didn't know which one of his thousand nightmares it was - there were so many of them that formed the tragic chorus of his everyday life. He flopped backwards with a sigh, rubbing his fingers against Dawn's side. Her face was half-hidden by a veil of hair, her hand curled up beneath her chin. His touchstone; still here, still his.

Lying in the darkened bedroom, covers piled around him, he let himself think about it. Let himself…hope? Fear? that it was true. He wasn't stupid enough to think she was coming back out of love. She'd never really loved him; he knew that now. He doubted she'd return to him unless there was something she wanted. It worried him. And the worst part was that it didn't matter, whatever the reason. He ached and pined and couldn't push her away, no matter how he tried. If she called, he'd follow. He glanced at Dawn, sleeping soundly beside him. Wasn't fair to Dawn. But then, he supposed, fair didn't enter into it.

She'd long been asleep when he finally rose, wandering around the apartment restlessly. Daylight pressed outside, but he couldn't sleep. So he sat and worried. Drank a bit more, but his heart wasn't in it. Mostly he smoked and tried not to think about Buffy.

He failed miserably, of course.

He remembered everything about the last time he saw her. She'd been out all night with Angelus; she almost never hunted with him anymore, not since the day he'd eaten at the butcher's.

He found out later that they'd murdered an entire foster family - two boys and three girls. The couple was blamed; the wife killed herself, the husband got the chair. If Spike concentrated, he could even recall their names.

He'd been drinking - he did a lot of that in those days, getting maudlin and insensible, easier to bear the thought of her with Angel when he was too drunk to hear their fucking through the walls. By the time she came back that morning, he was drunk - but still not drunk enough to sleep without the dreams - so he remembered it all clear as glass.

"Spike, get up," she snapped. It was her demanding voice, that same commanding tone she always used when she wanted him to snap to, and, like a soldier, he obeyed. _Sir, yes Sir!_ She said jump; he jumped. _See, your honor, I'm not responsible; I was just following orders_. He began to giggle helplessly. The crack of her foot against his shin quelled the worst of it. "What is it, love? Woke me up to tell me how useless I am? Figured that out on my own."

"Shut up. Here." She flung something into the corner where it landed with a dull thud and a little, gasping cry. "Keep an eye on that while I get cleaned up." He didn’t have to look up to see the sneer on her face; she hadn’t looked at him with anything less than disgust in quite a while. "Don’t worry, I won’t take you away from your drunken wallowing for long."

"A minute’s too long, love. The wallowing’s already behind schedule for tonight. But if you’d like to stay, I think I could be persuaded to make the show a bit more interesting." He levered himself upright, only a bit wobbly, and reached for her face, soft in the low light, dotted with a faint sprinkling of blood. Always such a messy eater. "Or you could join me," he whispered seductively, nuzzling just under her ear. He wasn’t so drunk that he didn’t remember what she liked after a kill. He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her, unresisting, to his side. "Come on, sweet," he murmured against her skin, laying slow, deliberate kisses along the shell of her ear. "Wallow a bit with me." She kissed him then, the taste of blood sweet on her tongue, and her hands slipped under his shirt to make his skin jump. His, she was his, made with his blood and pricked with his mark, and she’d come ‘round again, he always knew she would. He pulled her backward to the chair, smiling and sure.

"Buffy?" Angel’s voice came floating through the closed door, arrogant and amused. He didn’t bother to knock, just flung it open and lounged in the doorway, smirking broadly. "The shower’s running, honey. Don’t want to waste all the hot water." Buffy smiled at Spike for a moment, then said, nonchalantly, "Oh, well, maybe later." She pointed vaguely towards the corner, saying "I’ll be back for that later, anyway." She brushed Angel’s chest with a languid hand as she moved past, and both went out the door without looking again at Spike.

He sagged against the chair, listening to their laughter move down the hall, his eyes filled with angry tears. He couldn’t lose her, he couldn’t. Wouldn’t – not to him. His memory got a bit fuzzy here because, as he'd raged inwardly, he'd heard something. Oh. The thing Buffy had brought home. He got up and made his way to the corner, a little unsteady from drink and anger, and he was already trembling, but it hadn’t been helped when he found the girl. A tiny thing, no more than three, crying and blood-spattered, and hanging on desperately to some filthy toy.

The child just lay there, tears drying on her face, barely whimpering. Probably in shock. She stank of fear and so much blood...he couldn't…. How could he ever have? They’d brought her here, which meant no quick and painless death for her; they'd brought her back to play. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he knew that he just couldn’t - couldn’t let it, couldn’t watch it, couldn’t live with it. He bent and picked the child up gently, tried to stop shaking long enough to comfort her, soothe her fears, but his cold, cold hands threatened to set her off again. Two ways to save her, so he made a choice. The wrong one, as it turned out.

He ran from the house, racing daylight to leave the child at a hospital, setting her on the desk of some dog-faced night nurse before he made a dash for home. Didn’t make it – got caught by the daylight, burned the shit out of his face, had to spend the day cowering in a storm drain. But the girl was safe and gone. He tried not to think about the reception he’d face when he went home.

When he got back that night, Buffy wasn’t angry; she was gone, and Angel with her. The next night, the two of them broke into the children's ward and tore the girl to pieces. They left a note for him there that the police made much of: _No good deed goes unpunished._

***

And the sad part? That no matter what she'd done, what she wanted, whatever hell she planned to put him through, there was a very large part of him that couldn't wait to see her. Maybe that was Dru's influence as well…or maybe he was just the same masochistic bastard he'd always been. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that things would have been so much easier if he'd never laid eyes on Sunnydale. No chip, no humiliation, no ball-cracking Slayer to fall head-over-heels for. No soul. Mixed blessing, that - now he had one, the thought of himself without it wasn't so appealing as it might have been. Now that he knew, really knew, what it mean to be without? Might be his own version of hell, but it was his. Gave him choices, even if they were the wrong ones. Hadn't had that, before, he didn't think.

He wondered if things would have been different. If Sunnydale would have been the same, if the crises would have been the same, if Buffy would have been the same, if he and Dru had looked elsewhere for her cure.

Probably not. Wouldn't have stopped her and Angel from…. Anyway, world might have ended right then and there. Or ended with Adam. Or Glory. Or any of the other assorted apocalypses Buffy'd stopped. Presumably not the last one, though. Enough bleeding irony there to last ten lifetimes - without a soul he stopped two apocalypses; the simple act of getting one nearly caused another. The funniest thing was that he hadn't stopped to consider what would happen once he turned the girls. Hadn't thought of anything, really, except that she finally saw him, finally wanted what he'd always been, was finally ready to admit it. All he remembered was a kind of surprised joy.

When he could focus again, he'd realized that the First was still out there, still breeding monsters, still planning to finish the job. They hadn't stuck around to see, of course – Spike had no intention of remaining in that hellhole – but, if it had happened, they would have known. Packed up the girls' crap, fed 'em one good meal, and got the hell out of Dodge.

To their surprise, the world hadn't ended. Not that night, not the night after, not at all.

In the years after, Buffy only expressed mild curiosity about it, and Dawn was apparently content to pretend none of it had happened. Spike was the only one who worried, and wondered. He finally decided that the First was like most Big Bads – more mouth than muscle. Push came to shove, all it had was that whispering, persuasive voice. All talk, no show.

They'd never have known what happened, if it hadn't been for Angel.

They'd come home late one night, and he was waiting. Sat atop his obviously-overcompensating Mustang like some sort of fucking king, grinning from ear to ear. To Spike, the meaning was clear: something bad was going to happen. Wasn't quite enough to make Spike shudder, but it was close.

For one brief moment, Spike was afraid that Angel had come to try and kill them - brought that band of goody-goodies from LA after them. That train of thought lasted only until Angel jumped from the car, stalking towards them with an exaggerated swagger, brilliant smile in place. Spike knew that walk, knew that smirk. The boy scout wasn't currently in residence.

He'd known whatever it was couldn't be good, but looking back, he hadn't a clue how bad it would get. Didn't know then that he could hate Angel more than he already did. Never say never, he supposed.

Should have killed him that night, Spike reflected. If he had, she'd never--- he stifled that thought with another shot of whiskey. Wouldn't have done anything but delay it. She was already as good as gone.


	4. Chapter 4

"Get up."

The words penetrated his brain a microsecond before the water hit him in the face. He jerked out of the chair, spluttering, sleep-soaked eyes finally taking in Dawn, standing before him with her hands on her hips.

"I've only been yelling at you forever. Get up. Buffy called - she's an hour away, and you need to go eat." She sniffed sourly at him. "Ugh. And take a shower. You smell like shit."

He watched her walk to the door, short skirt hitching higher as she moved. Still unfocused, too much drink and too little sleep, he was having a bit of trouble figuring things out. "Where are you going?"

"Out." She picked up her purse on the way, fished the bike keys out of his coat. She never looked back at him, just pulled open the door.

"Dawn, wait." She paused for the merest second, eyes downcast. "Give me a minute to throw something on, love, and we'll go together."

"She'll be here in an hour, Spike. You should go eat. Don't wait up." Could freeze water with her voice. The door closed behind her, and he was alone.

He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, kicked at the empty bottle beside the chair. He hadn't meant to sleep there. Hadn't meant to…well, that was the problem, wasn't it? Never _meant_ to do anything.

***

He didn't eat. No time to eat, not really - too risky to hunt close to the apartment, and anyway, if Dawn wasn't with him, there wasn't a need. He was used to going without; didn't need feeding every day. So he showered and sobered up, and tried to steady himself for what was coming. And then he waited. And waited. One hour, two. Bitch wasn't really coming, was she? Called to set her sister off, make him crazy, but she wasn't actually going to come. It was just like her - bit of casual fun, and nothing more. He shoved his feet in his boots. Fuck her, fuck them both, maybe he'd just go hunting, after all.

Yanked open the door - and there she was, looking exactly the same as always. Hair falling in waves to her shoulders, expensive and not-too-concealing clothes. He glanced involuntarily at her feet. Yeah, probably Italian. She always did have champagne taste. Felt the queerest drop in his stomach, managed a surprised expression, but not much more. "Oh - you're…late. Dawn said -"

"Spike." She smiled, giving him the casual once-over. He supposed he met with her approval, because she said, "Aren't you going to invite me in?"

"Don't think you need an invitation, do you?" he said, as he moved aside for her.

"No," she replied, "but you did always get pissy about stuff like that." She paused, peering with disdain at the empty bottle on the floor, the glass shards still littering the hall. "Still living like a pig?" She walked deliberately to the bedroom, threw it open, not giving the still-hanging chains more than a glance. "Where's Dawnie? Didn't she want to wait for her big sister to get here?"

"Something like that," he mumbled.

"So it's just the two of us?"

He stared at her, warily. "Yeah. For now. Dawn went to eat; she'll be back soon."

Her voice was low and sweet. "Then we'd better get busy." She glided towards him, hips swaying, and damned if he didn't feel just like a mouse in front of a cobra. Hair on the back of his neck prickled, every nerve ending shrieking danger!danger!danger!, yet he was mesmerized, unable to tear his eyes away from the patterns she drew with her body.

"Get busy with what, Buffy?" She was close, now, pushing the front door shut behind him, leaning up into his face.

"With this, Spike." And she kissed him.

_Must still be dreaming_ , was his first thought, couldn't be real, not with her body pressed up against his and her lips so soft against his, and he just quit. Quit fighting it, quit pretending that he could be aloof to her, just gave himself over to the crash of emotions and the drowning need. Years, it had been years, and yet she still fit perfectly against him, with him, like she was a piece of himself that had broken off and had now been fitted back again. So perfect, and so welcome, he felt his heart shatter all over again. He was such a fool.

He cupped her face with both hands, and kissed her hungrily, a starving man grasping for sustenance. It was too good, too perfect - she hadn't touched him, hadn't wanted him in so long…

She pulled away, licking her lips, and gazed up at him in mock shyness. Here it is, he thought, and braced for the blow. God knows it would hurt. She leaned back into him, let her hands slip down to cup his ass, and smiled. "I missed you," she said.

The sound that left his mouth was second cousin to a sob, and he crushed her to him, hiding his face in her hair. Couldn't let her see the tears forming in his eyes. It was a lie, of course, but at least it was a pretty one. "Have you now?" he whispered.

He shivered as he felt her tongue-wet lips along his throat, her breath blowing cool where her kisses had been. "Yeah, I have, Spike." Her fingers bunched his shirt up, the gesture scraped her nails so lightly across the flat of his back that he arched against her without conscious thought. "It's been a long time, Spike. Didn't you miss me?" He felt the curve of her smile against his neck, as she slipped a hand down to stroke his erection. "Sure feels like you missed me."

"You know I did," he murmured. Didn't trust his voice above a whisper.

That prompted another smile from her and a chuckle. "Well, you're not making this very easy."

"Making what easy?" Her hair was soft against his cheek; she smelled just the same as he recalled. He'd missed her so.

Her fingers stroked him, up and down, and he shivered, her lips moving softly against his skin as she spoke. "I'm trying to seduce you. Don't tell me it's been so long you've forgotten?"

This time he was the one who pulled away. "I haven't forgotten anything, Buffy."

She pursed her lips in a charming pout. "Are you still mad at me?" She wound her arms around his neck, smiling indulgently at him. Licked her lips and made the smallest shimmy against his body. "What can I ever do to make it up to you?" His mouth went dry. God, he'd almost forgotten this - how she looked, how she felt, underneath his hands. Where Dawn was sleek and soft, Buffy's softness was stretched taut over muscle, strong, passionate, and hard as nails.

Yeah, she was hard in all kinds of ways.

But her lips were soft; gentle kisses dragging him back to happier times. He wanted nothing more than to slip back into that memory, pretend things had never gone south. He shook it off; too dangerous. Pulled back a second time, this time stepping away, putting aching distance between their bodies. His voice was tight to keep from shaking. "What do you want, Buffy?"

She smiled, the slow, wicked smile that always did make his pulse want to race. "Thought I made that clear, Spike. Do I really need to draw you a picture?" She began to unbutton her blouse, slowly, so slowly that he couldn't have looked away if he had to.

"Not what I meant," he said hoarsely.

She laughed, shrugging off her shirt and dragging her fingers across her hardened nipples. "I know." She slid her hands down her abdomen, popped open the buttons on her jeans. "You want to know," she said, sliding the pants over her hips with a little teasing motion, "why I came back. Why I'm standing here in your filthy living room, wet and ready for you. Right?" Spike opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a finger to stop him. "Shh. That was a…what do you call it, you know, a question that doesn't need answering. I forget what they're called." Delicately opened her lips, running her tongue across her index finger, and then slid her hand inside the satin panties she wore. "Mmm. And I am so wet, Spike. " She withdrew her hand, reached out to paint his lips, saturate his senses with her arousal. "What do you care why I came back, so long as you get this?"

He caught her hand, held the wrist tight. "I care," he said, speaking carefully and slowly, "because you want it so bad. Been ten years since you wanted me - no, let's be honest, longer than that - no reason for you suddenly decide you need me. You want something. And I want to know what it is. I figure I ought to know what touching you is going to cost me." His eyes never left hers as he pressed her fingers to his lips. Underneath her scent was blood, fresh and sticky. She'd fed recently and was still all keyed up. He tried not to wonder who it had been, purposefully turned his mind from the memory of their last time together.

The smile that lit her face gave way to happy laughter. "Is that all?" she asked. Her free hand reached for the waistband of his jeans, pulling him forward. "I thought you were going to tell me something bad." He didn't stop her when she slid down his zipper, gasping when her hand slipped inside to cup his erection. She gazed up slyly, and said, "I thought maybe you were going to say that you didn't love me anymore."

"Never," he rasped. "God, Buffy, always, I'll-"

"There's my guy," she murmured happily, before he grabbed her to him, kissed her with all the pent-up passion of the years gone by.

She tugged him down to the floor, their mouths never separating, even while they tumbled for dominance; their passion was adversarial as ever. Buffy won - she always did - always managed to make him roll over and beg. He really was a pathetic excuse for a vampire, he thought, as she settled over him. Then he didn't think of anything for a while. She was wet and strong, and felt the same, no, felt different, but still familiar, still good. Hell, amazing. His memory wasn't really that accurate; she was so much better than he remembered, and, for just a minute, he forgot all about the price he'd have to pay, just let his heart sing, and buried himself in paradise. The only kind of paradise he'd be likely to achieve.

And there was a second, just a second, when orgasm rocked through him, that he felt real, complete, Buffy in his arms, and all right with the universe. "I love you," he whispered. "Always, Buffy. Never stop loving you."

She sighed happily. "Yeah, I know," she grinned down at him. Swiveled her hips once more, slowly, and then moved out of his reach, scooping her clothes up from where she'd tossed them. His fingertips ached from want of her skin. He'd forgotten; no touching afterward with Buffy.

She wandered into the kitchen as she slipped her shirt on. "Sex always makes me hungry…and vice versa," she said. "C'mon, get dressed, let's go eat."

Ah. There was the knife. He wondered how long it was going to take her to go for the gut. He sat up slowly, and ran a hand through his hair. "I'm not hungry. And neither are you." Could still smell the kill on her, as a matter of fact.

"Oh, don't tell me you're still all holier-than-thou," she said, scathingly. Threw open the fridge, and stared with amusement at the contents: a six-pack of beer, jar of mustard, half-full container of pickled jalapenos. No pig's blood, though, and no lingering scent from any. She held up the mustard jar for him to see and laughed, "Why do you even have this, anyway?" Held up a hand to forestall any answers. "No - never mind, I'm pretty sure I don't care." Went back to the living room, perching on the arm of the sofa. "Come on, Spike, hurry up. I'm bored."

Spike regarded her warily as he dressed. Buffy bored often led to unpleasantness, even before. "Where is it, exactly, that you want to go?"

Buffy rolled her eyes and kicked her foot idly. "I don't know. What about where Dawn went? We could catch up - Dawn always did know the best places to hang out."

"You didn't come back after all this time for a tumble and a bit of dancing. What do you want, Buffy?"

She breezed out the door, her laughing voice floating back to him on the night air. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

***

He knew exactly which club to head for. Dawn was pissed off, so naturally it'd be the one he'd told her to stay out of. He saw the bike parked out front in a tow-away zone. _That's my girl_ , he thought proudly. Loved that she just didn't bloody care - did what she wanted, when she wanted, and the rest of the world could fuck off.

He flinched, imperceptibly, as Buffy put an arm around his waist; better for everyone if he kept some distance, if he could - but he wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and in they went. The music was loud, pulsing through their bodies. Impossible to hear anything but the relentless bass line until the song was over. In the break, he said, "Go find us a table - I'll get some drinks." And look for Dawn. Made his way to the bar, ordered for the three of them. Best to placate Dawn; it'd be hard enough once they did find her. He had their drinks sent to the table, and sipped his while he scanned the club. One good thing about this place, they had half-decent beer on the menu.

He didn't see Dawn on the dance floor or sitting at any of the tables. He frowned. He'd seen the bike, knew she was here, but where? Pushed himself away from the bar, took the long way 'round to join Buffy. Still didn't see her. He sat down, briefly, eyes darting here and there, fingers tapping nervously against the table. Buffy looked amused, leaning back against the booth with a smirk, legs stretched out the length of the bench. She raised a questioning eyebrow, but the only answer Spike had was a shrug.

Another song, still no Dawn. Jumped up, too tense to wait, and made another circuit of the place, Buffy's eyes following him as he made his way across the club. Back corners gave up lovers, couple of drunks waiting to be robbed, but no Dawn. Then he saw the alley entrance. She wouldn't have…would she? Dammit, she knew it was too dangerous to feed close to home, especially in a place where they'd caused a scene just a few days earlier. But right now, she might not be thinking clearly. Could get them all dusted, if she wasn't careful.

He saw them as soon as he threw open the door and stepped out into the cool night air. She wasn't even trying to hide, the stupid bitch. He slammed the door shut behind him, stepped forward, and froze. She wasn't feeding. Her eyes were shut, head lolled back against the brick, just as she'd been for him, her blouse shoved up, some fucking asshole sucking on her tits, hand up underneath her skirts while she moaned.

He didn't remember moving, honestly. He was just suddenly there, game-faced, snatching the boy (not even a man, just a fucking kid) off her, throwing him backward as hard as he could; punching and tearing while the boy screamed. Dawn screamed, but he didn't care if the cops showed, he was going to teach her that he didn't fucking lie.

Dawn pulled him off before he could tear the boy's throat. "What do you think you're doing, Spike?" she shouted.

"Told you, I told you to stay away from here. You're mine," he growled.

"Fuck you!" she screamed. "What the hell do you care who I screw?" Her nostrils flared, and her face twisted as her demon emerged. "I can smell her all over - what, did you wait two whole minutes before you did her in our bed? News flash, Spike - I'm not yours. I'll fuck whoever I want, whenever I want and you can just--."

His fist shot out, caught her square across the jaw. She stumbled backward and fell, scraping her legs on the gravel. She came up crying, voice trembling, but head erect. "Fuck off and die, Spike. I hope you and the bitch are very happy together." Then she turned and ran; he heard the bike roaring away a moment later. Shit. Screwed that up, didn't he? He pressed his palms against his eyes, tried to get himself under control. He had known this would happen. Known it all along. He took a deep, steadying breath and, stepping over the boy, went to find Buffy.

At first, he thought Dawn was sitting with her. But as he neared, he realized it was just a victim. Buffy was chatting away to a tall, slender woman wearing a skintight black tank. Long brown hair, oval face - it was striking how much she resembled Dawn. Or what Dawn would have grown to be, if she'd lived. That can't be good, he thought.

Buffy glanced up as he came to the table. "Spike!" she shouted, "This is Lesley. She's here visiting - she's from London, like you. Maybe you two know some of the same people," she said, slyly.

Lesley smiled, extending her hand to Spike. "Where do you live, in London?" she asked.

Spike scowled, but shook her hand, which was hot in his. She was drunk. "Don't live there at all. Not for a long time, now. I doubt we run in the same circles, anyway." He glared at Buffy. "Can I talk to you for a minute, love? In private?"

She gave Lesley her best eye-roll and slid from the booth to join Spike. "I'll be back in a minute," she said in a voice that suggested infinite patience was in order. "Order me another wine spritzer, ok?"

She made Spike wait 'til she got her hand stamped, taking exaggerated care apparently just to see him boil. He jerked her angrily out the door, talking fast through clenched teeth.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

" What's it look like I'm doing? I told you, sex makes me hungry." She gave him her best are you fucking retarded? look, hands on her hips.

"We don't hunt near the house. Or inside the clubs. People see you when you do that. This isn't Sunnydale, love - people 'round here actually care when you start murdering folks on a regular basis."

"Wasn't that what Dawn was doing?"

"No," he said, tightly. "Dawn's gone home."

"Well, I'm not going to eat her here," Buffy said with an exasperated sigh. "I'll take her somewhere else, ok? So just chill out. Or you could come with us - there could be all kinds of eating going on," she said, smirking. She ran a hand lightly across his belly, and slowly gazed up at his frowning face. "No? Then kiss my ass. You act like I have to do what you say, or something. If I want to, I'll bleed her out right there at the table. It's loud, and they're all drunk, anyway, nobody would see a thing. Who knows, maybe I will."

"Buffy…"

But he'd been dismissed. She flounced back inside and emerged a minute or so later arm-in-arm with the girl. They disappeared into the parking lot without ever looking back.

He didn't know what to do. He sighed, leaning back against the brick in defeat. God, his unlife sucked. He pulled himself up, dug a smoke out of his pocket. When in doubt, drink. But not here. He turned and headed toward downtown.


	5. Chapter 5

About the time the first punch landed, he realized that he'd finally gone full circle. From lovesick git getting beaten by demons to lovesick git being beaten by demons. It was like he'd never left Sunnydale. He grabbed a bottle, smashed it up and over into some scaly thing's - well, it was on the front of its head, it must be a face. It staggered back, roaring, while Spike levered himself to his feet with a bloody grin. _Finally_ , something he could fight.

***

The first twelve bars had been a bust. Nothing but snot-nosed kids, or middle-aged drones drowning their troubles. He was the scariest thing for miles, and any attempts of his to provoke a little violence resulted in the sea of humans parting like he was goddamn Moses with his staff. Figured. Got thrown out of three; tried to flash some green and get jumped for it in two more - nobody wanted anything to do with him. In between the first and last, he travelled on ever-less-steady legs from place to place. Hours till sunrise, but still felt risky in this sprawling city.

It was after midnight when he found the demon bar. Some kind of glamour on it kept it hidden till he walked right beside it - the worst kind of hangout, too - full of misshapen things even he couldn't name, and the smell of drugs thick in the air. Could cut the hostility with a knife - all the heads swiveling about (some more than others) when he entered. Vampires weren't apparently very welcome here. Better and better. He eased himself onto a barstool and ordered a beer. After a moment's thought, he ordered some blood, too - might as well take advantage of the fact that he could. The blood was old, and bore the first hints of disease, and it was priced entirely too high. But it was human, and warm, and blessedly guilt-free. He drank it down in one long draught.

Shook out a smoke, and picked up his beer, turning to scan the bar for likely sources of trouble. His fingers flexed involuntarily as he watched; he badly needed to hit something. Simply going home was not an option - he couldn't decide whether the worst-case-scenario involved them being gone from the apartment, or being there together, waiting for him. Either way, he just wasn't up to it without a bit of--the hand on his shoulder gave him pause; large, tight, and heavy. _Here we go_ ,he thought.

A gravel-rough voice rumbled in his ear, "We don't like your kind, here."

With studied nonchalance, Spike reached to remove the hand, dropping it with casual distaste. His demeanor spoke of wanting to wipe down the jacket where the offending talon had grasped. "Piss off."

"What did you say to me, you filthy little meat-sac?"

Spike's fist was faster than the eye could follow - certainly faster than his vampire-hating demon could dodge, since it flattened the thing to the ground, where it lay, unmoving. He had enough time to wonder whether he'd killed it outright, when the rest of the crowd rushed him at the bar.

_What a rush_ , was his first thought. He threw himself sideways as the demons surged forward, grabbing the last one and tossing it roughly against the wall. It's short-lived screech of pain brought the others up short, and they turned almost as one to see Spike behind them, grinning as he leaned against a table. This was going to be fun.

The first few blows he blocked, caught the next, shoving back hard till the demon buckled against the one behind him. Easy as pie, no fancy moves among this set - big and slow and dumb, and just exactly what he needed. They hadn't figured out yet that they could come at him from more than one side, so the fight wasn't all it could have been, but still, felt good. He caught a couple of blows - one in particular right on the nose, staggering him back. Punch, kick, jump, punch - felt so natural, it took him a moment to realize that he was waiting for something. Something was missing, and he couldn't quite figure what it---

He stopped dead in the middle of the bar. Buffy. He was waiting for Buffy to join the fight. He felt his love and longing laid bare like a great pulsing wound; he howled with fury at how she managed to gut him even when she wasn't there - and then they had him. Threw him to the floor, and he felt a sharp, hot pain on his right side, demons kneeling on his legs and back. Would've gone badly, too, except his fumbling fingers found the lighter and a pile of bar napkins soaked with whatever rotgut that passed for liquor in that place. He was frankly surprised he didn't burn. The place went up like it had been soaked in gasoline, and the demons scattered, leaving him free. The bartender'd been the first to scarper, so Spike helped himself to a bottle of something that looked consumable before he sauntered out.

Cracked his neck, took a long draught and watched the pretty fire till the sirens drew near. He smiled as he sauntered away. Turned out to not to be such a bloody awful night after all.

***

It was nearly light when he stumbled in; he passed three neighbors on an early morning jog. Their averted eyes and their habit of crossing to the other side of the road when he dragged himself into view was as much a testament to his and Dawn's frequent battles as his grotesque appearance this morning. Didn't need a mirror to show him the damage, when he had horrified neighbors. He sighed, leaning heavily against the door of the apartments. Bloody hell. They'd probably complain at the tenant's meeting again. He had a hell of a time keeping Dawn from laying into all of them last time. He didn't fancy moving again so soon.

He pulled himself slowly up the stairs, pausing to ease his ribs - at least three cracked, if not broken. Hard to tell, with this amount of drink in him. He was sore from top to bottom, one eye swollen nearly shut, and a lip to match, blood in his hair - not all of it his, of course - broken nose, and one nasty-feeling place in his back where he was pretty sure they'd tried to shove a pool cue through his chest. On the wrong side, of course. For big hulking things, they weren't very bright. Plus, he was pretty sure the cues were fiberglass.

He steadied himself with one hand while he worked the lock with the other. Once upon a time, he had minions to stand watch; didn't bother with sodding lock-and-keys. Yeah, that was it. He'd get some minions, and they could do…he lost his barely-formed thought as the door swung open. He kicked it shut behind him, and dropped his coat in a heap on the floor. Broke another lamp as he hopped around removing his boots. Damn things seemed to be superglued on. Finally he gave up and just sat down to do it. The room swam a bit, though from the whiskey or the cut over his eye, he wasn't sure. He shed the rest of his clothing bit by bit, as he wandered down the hall, until at last he crawled in, naked, next to Dawn. Automatically gathered her into his arms, making a contented noise.

"Don't touch me," Dawn began, but Spike leaned over to plant a wet kiss on her shoulder.

"Shh, pet. Sleep. Shh." He was snoring moments later.

***

_Drusilla was waiting for him outside. He could hear her calling, her sing-song voice pulling him from sleep. He slipped from bed and wandered naked to the window, staring down to where she stood, silhouetted in the light from the car park. How had she found him?_

_She raised one gloved hand in greeting, motioning him down to her like she used to do. The thought was all it took, and he was there, naked before her, his fingers trembling as he traced the line of her jaw. Was she real? She was; her cheek was firm and smooth as she nuzzled into his hand, ran her own fingers down the length of his body._

_"What are you doing here, Dru? It's been so long…"_

_"Shh. I've come to tell you a secret, my beautiful killer. You're too thin - you can't eat salt."_

_"What?" He glanced down to see her hand resting over his heart, the lace scratching at his skin. "I'm fine, love. I ate last night." He pulled her closer, laid his cheek against hers. "Dru - what - why are you here?" He pulled back to search her face for meaning, and asked, "You - you haven't come back to me, have you?" Any joy that thought might have heralded was lost in thinking what Dawn would do - if there wasn't room for Buffy, there certainly wouldn't be room for Dru._

_"Silly boy. You don't belong to me, anymore." She kissed him, and he shuddered with the memories it brought. "You still taste of despair," she said. "Even when they steal it away, you'll still be nothing but ashes."_

_Her face was etched with pity, and he couldn't bear it - not from her. He turned away to find himself in the bedroom, Dawn sleeping and himself spooned around her. The daylight beat down overhead, and Drusilla murmured in his ear - prophecies and rhymes and all her beautiful nonsense, but he couldn't hear a word. "Dru…" he whispered, "You'll wake her up. Shh."_

_Her answering laugh echoed off the empty walls, but the sleepers didn't waken. "She won't wake up now. You saw to that." She wandered to the edge of the bed, staring down at Dawn, lying motionless amid the blankets. "She's very pretty, Spike. Like you." She slowly lifted her gaze to meet his across the room. "She's not why I've come."_

_Now she was walking through the alley, a familiar alley, one from years before. Behind the Bronze, and there was Buffy, and Xander and Willow, their laughter ringing against the bricks. "Kill her, Spike." Drusilla whispered. "Kill her for princess." And then it grew dark, and all he could hear was the quiet thump of earth against a shovel. "That isn't what I meant," she said, petulantly._

_"It never is, love," was his reply._

He didn't wake till late again, his head throbbing and his body aching with last night's excesses. He wasn't sure he'd have woken even when he did, except that the shouting reached his ears. He reached beside him in the bed; had Dawn woken, as well? His hand reached the bare expanse of empty sheets at the same time he realized where the shouting was coming from: the living room. Buffy's voice, and Dawn's. _Fuck._


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't wake till well after dark, his head throbbing and his body aching with last night's excesses. He wasn't sure he'd have woken even when he did, except that the shouting reached his ears. He reached beside him in the bed; had Dawn woken, as well? His hand touched the bare expanse of empty sheets even as he realized who the angry voices belonged to. They must have started without him this evening. Fuck. He couldn't remember when his waking life had become little better than his nightmares, but he'd be willing to bet it had to do with the two women in the next room.

Well, no use trying to sleep with WWIII raging on the other side of the wall. He lifted himself gingerly off the bed, winced as he swung his legs over. His head pounded, and his body ached with last night's excesses. The shouting from the other room became clearer, more insistent. Made his heart ache, too. He didn't know what slicing, hateful words they were throwing at one another; he didn't have to. It never changed, that family pattern. Even death hadn't altered it - just made it uglier. All their turning had done was wipe out the love that underpinned it; now all they had left was the rivalry, bitter as gall.

He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head to clear it. Might as well get it over with.

Naked, he threw open the bedroom door and stalked through to the kitchen. Two pairs of angry eyes turned toward him as opened the fridge to grab a beer. Cracked it standing there, and drank it down. It churned in his empty stomach. Not so much used to it these days, he guessed. He swiveled to look at his girls, staring at him from across the room.

Dawn was livid, shaking, her hands balled into fists and her eyes smudged where her liner had run. Buffy leaned against the couch, smiling slyly, her hair and face picture-perfect, and Spike had to fight the sudden urge to slap the smile off her face.

Her eyes flicked carelessly over him, and she said, "What happened to you?"

He took a final pull from the bottle, then tossed it back negligently on the counter. "Met some friends." He looked carefully from one to the other, gauging Dawn's mood. The fight hadn't moved to blows yet, though he didn't doubt they weren't far behind. "What's going on? You two woke me up."

Buffy laughed. "It's nearly nine, Spike. We've been waiting for you to move your lazy ass for hours. That's ok, though, it gave us some quality sister time, right, Dawn?"

Dawn crossed her arms and said nothing, though Spike could see tears beginning to form again at the back of her eyes. Buffy always was the better of the two of them at this sort of game; cruelty had always slithered under the surface of her sisterly affection. Consciously, Spike moved from his neutral stance to stand near Dawn; could feel her relax, just the smallest amount.

"So you're all caught up, then? Anything I need to know?" His voice was quiet, calmer than he felt. Anything could set the two of them off, and he'd be the likely target.

Buffy's smile widened, and he felt Dawn stiffen beside him. "I was just telling Dawnie here about how I'm moving back in."

He couldn't help it; his whole body jerked, hit the table, sent it flying. She knew every button to push, didn't she? Didn't have to teach her that. "You're moving back in?" he asked, incredulously.

"Yeah. I was gonna keep it a secret for a while longer, but I just couldn't wait to see the look on Dawn's face. Plus, you know, I really need her to move her stuff out of the bedroom, since I'm bringing mine over tonight."

He didn't hear Dawn move away from him, just the door slam behind her. Fuck! He snatched his torn and filthy jeans off the floor, struggling into them, cursing, while Buffy watched in amused silence. Then he tore out of the apartment after Dawn, shirtless, shoeless, the cold air whipping his body. "Dawn!"

She hadn't made it far. He found her huddled in the alleyway a few yards from home. She flinched from his hands, but she didn't pull away when he gathered her to him, rested his cheek against hers. "Dawn, sweetheart. It's all right, love. She's just - you know how she is. Say anything to hurt you and me. She'll be gone soon, and we'll be just like before."

Her voice trembled with tears. "You don't know anything, Spike. God, you're so fucking stupid sometimes!"

He could feel her tears, splashing against his chest, salt stinging the wounds there. "Slayer made her choice a while back, pet. She's not coming back to either one of us."

She pulled away then, anger and pain twisting her features. "Bullshit. She means it. It's not enough she has everything else, she has to take you, too. Go ask her." She drew her hand roughly across her eyes, wiped away all the remaining tears. "Yeah, she won't stay. But there won't be anything left worth having by the time she leaves. You'll be - it'll be just like it was before. You'll lay around drunk and won't hunt, and won't fuck me, won't even look at me. I can't do that a second time, Spike. I won't do it."

"Dawn--" He clung to her tightly; what could he possibly say? Her hair was whisper-soft against his cheek, and she still smelled faintly of cigarettes and beer from the night before. "I don't know what you want me to say, love. I'm here with you, aren't I?"

Her laughter was bitter. "Yeah, only cause you're afraid you'll lose your backup. But you know good and goddamn well that she's your fucking queen, she gets anything she fucking wants and I get whatever's left."

He thrust her away from him, anger flaring. "What the hell do you want from me, Dawn?" He paced angrily as he talked; felt every pebble, every bit of glass beneath his bare feet, could smell the blood just breaking through the skin. Nothing in his life came without pain, did it? Couldn't she see?

Hovered over her, hand tangled in her hair, voice choked and small. "What do you want? I'm hunting for you, killing for you, girl – staying in this shithole of a town - I've damned myself to hell every single day for you. What else do you bloody want from me?"

She laughed again, sharp and ugly. When she answered, her voice was like breaking glass. "I want you to see _me_ , not just the next best thing to her." She pushed him away, arms stiff and hard, rushing past him to the street.

"Dawn, wait!" He grabbed her arm, pulled her around to face him. Didn't expect her fist to follow. It caught him unawares, good right slam right on the nose, and sent him sprawling.

"Don't! Don't ever touch me again!"

For a moment, he thought she would break, trembling and teary-eyed, and then she turned on her heel, and was gone.

He lay in the street for a long time, half-dressed and bloody and wishing to hell he'd never set foot in California at all. Threw his head back to the pavement in time to see curtains twitch shut; no telling how many bloody neighbors saw that little show. Fuck 'em. He was long past caring - they'd be out on their arses soon enough, anyway.

Slowly, he levered himself upright and limped back upstairs. He'd torn open the wound on his back; he could feel a sluggish trail of blood rolling down his side. Not for the first time, he wondered if staking hurt less than his continued existence.

Buffy was waiting for him when he reached the apartment. She lay sprawled on the couch, feet draped carelessly over the arm. A bottle of nail polish was balanced precariously on the cushion beside her, and she was applying the palest shade of peach lacquer while the news played, unheeded, on the television behind her. She spared him the merest glance when he came in, but her voice was full of satisfaction when she spoke. "Well, that was fun." She flicked her gaze at him again, took in the scrapes on his arms and hands, the faint trail of blood on his side. "You run into some more of your special friends?"

He slid down the wall to sit on the floor, heedless of the blood. Not like they'd ever see the deposit again. He closed his eyes so he didn't have to see her mocking smile. "No. Ran into your sister's fist, more like."

Her laughter washed over him. "Now that's funny. I knew you'd let yourself go, but letting Dawn knock you down? That's just pathetic." She sat up, fanning her nails to dry them, and studied him, slumped miserably against the wall. "For the record, Spike? The mopey thing? So not attractive."

Her voice made his teeth ache. "What the fuck do you want, Slayer?" he gritted out.

The heavy nail polish jar hit him square in the chest. "I told you – don't call me that!"

"Right. And you've been around so often to remind me." His eyes narrowed. "Matter of fact, it's been ten years or better since you pretended to give a shit about either one of us. So why don't you just cut to the chase?"

"I told you," she said, with amusement. "Well, I told Dawn, anyway." She slipped from the cushions and padded barefoot to where he sat. "I'm moving back in."

He glared up at her, standing like a vision above him. Shiny hair and flawless skin, and a yawning pit where her soul used to be. He looked away, suddenly shamed.

"Gee, I don't know why I thought you might be happy to see me," she said. Her voice softened, sweet as honey, and when he glanced again, her face was open and hopeful. "You and me and Dawn, we could be a family again – I thought that's what you wanted, all this time." For a moment, just a moment, it was as if he saw an echo of who she used to be; for one brief second he saw Buffy, his girl, instead of the monster she'd become.

And then she laughed. Threw back her head and giggled helplessly. "Thank god I don't have to try and pull that off. What a load of crap." She stood up and began to cast around for her shoes. "Come on – go get dressed, and let's go kill something." She slid the strap over one slender ankle. "Dawn's not coming back, is she?"

Dawn. _Hell if he knew._ He thought she'd be back before morning, but she was unpredictable. Like her sister. He didn't move, just closed his eyes again, and wished hopelessly. "Yeah, all right, you've had your little laugh. So why don't you get to the point?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "You know, you used to be a lot more fun than this," she whined.

"Used to be a lot of things that I'm not anymore. Just answer the fucking question. What do you want?"

She smiled, and crossed the room to kneel beside him. Lips against his ear, she whispered softly, "Your soul."


	7. Chapter 7

He couldn't help the laughter. It shook him, heedless of the scraping of his not-quite-healed-yet ribs, and the darkening expression on Buffy's face.

She sat back on her heels, arms crossed in that oh-so-familiar gesture, puzzled annoyance on her face. It made him laugh even harder.

"It's not funny."

"Funny? It's bloody hilarious. My _soul_?" he laughed darkly. "You are the eternal fucking drama queen, aren't you?" He levered himself to his feet, groping in the pocket of his discarded coat for a smoke. "Anyway, you destroyed that in me a long time ago, pet."

She snorted. "I'm the drama queen? Get a grip. I mean, anybody can see you still have--"

"It's a metaphor, you git."

She sighed impatiently. "I know it's a metaphor, dumbass. Point, meet Spike."

The lighter flared as he lit his cigarette, then closed with a satisfying snick. Rested his back against the wall as he took a drag. There. Better. Tilted his head, looking at her was a bit easier to do, now. "So now we've had a bit of a laugh, why don't you really tell me what you're after."

"You are such an idiot. Soul. Out of your body. I want. I want you soul-less, soul-lite, soul-free, with 80% less guilt. Get it?"

She wasn't joking. That did not bode well, he was fairly sure. "Bored, are you? Need it for your next apocalypse? I knew it'd been too long since the last one. So now you've come up here with some half-assed plan to get your adrenalin fix? What you need, Slayer, is a hobby. I hear knitting is supposed to be good for the nerves."

He was surprised that the force of her eyeroll didn't knock him to the ground.

"I haven't tried to start an apocalypse in two years, and – hey! That's not the point. The point is that I want you back again, not this pathetic, wimpy has-been you've been impersonating." Standing, she made her way over to him, trailing her fingers along his bare chest. "Don't tell me you don't want it taken away, that you're not dying to get rid of all that guilt and pain...'cause I know you are."

God help him, he did want it gone. Wanted to wake up without it pressing down on him, eat without wanting to heave. Wanted to not have to struggle anymore, even though he deserved every second of pain. Quietly, he said, "Never happen, sweet. No shoddy gypsy work holding this one on by a string – mine's hooked up proper. If it was that easy to get rid of, don't you think I'd have done it years ago?" He reached for her, pulling her against his chest, burying his face against her hair. Soon she'd be gone, and this is what he'd have for memory. Better than the last time, at least. "Can't be undone, pet, I tried. Might as well just go, and let me and Dawn get on with it."

She scowled. "God, you are such a lightweight. Why are you being so stupid about this? Look, I know you still want me." Her words tickled over his chest, her hands following their movement across his scarred flesh. "And I never stopped wanting you - well, not this way, anyway." Her tongue traced the edges of a cut on his shoulder, sparking shivers across his chest. "Mmm. It's just that...well, there's this huge thing that keeps me from coming back to you. If you didn't have it, everything would be perfect." She pulled back to grace him with a self-satisfied smile. "So what would you say if I told you that I could have it out in less than an hour? That I know somebody who can take care of it just like that?"

The sudden flash of understanding was like icewater in the face. "That shaman you kidnapped."

She nodded happily. "He did it for Angel, you know, back before you turned me. Says yours would be no sweat."

He stared over her shoulder, eyes unfocused, afraid to buy it, afraid she was still playing him for a fool. Cautiously, he said, "And Angel? He's all right with this whole plan? You coming back to me and all? Somehow, I don't think us getting back together is on Angel's short list."

"Oh, who cares what _MrAllAboutMe_ thinks? He's either showing off and expecting me to swoon like I'm still a know-nothing 16 year old, or he's lecturing me like I just started killing last week. And don't even get me started on the hair. I just want it to be like it was in the beginning - just you and me."

"You and me?"

"Yep." She reached up to nip at his earlobe. "Just you," she whispered, "and me."

"For how long? How long before he comes looking for you? How long before you run back to him and leave me and Dawn in the lurch?"

"You and Dawn?" She laughed. "Does forever work for you, Spike?" she asked, with a grin.

He stiffened against her mockery. "Until _he_ wonders where you've gone, you mean."

"Please. The only thing Angel gives a shit about is Angel. Anyway, how do you think I found the shaman? It was his idea. He said I was too," she mimed air quotes with a dissatisfied expression, " _high maintenance_. Prick. Just because I expected, oh, I don't know, a tiny bit of attention every now and then. Well, and some fun. Jeez, it was like living with Grandpa Summers. _Don't cause a scene, Buffy. Show a little discretion, Buffy_. Big baby. He's such a tightass, even without the soul."

Spike snorted. "Could have told you that myself, love." He pulled away from her as he raised the cigarette to his lips. "So what you're saying is that our boy Angel isn't paying enough attention to you, and you thought I'd be a good replacement. That it?"

"Well, duh. 'Willing slave', yadda, yadda. But that's not the only reason." She walked around him and hauled herself up on the counter, her heels clacking against the cupboards below.

The action was so familiar it started a Sunnydale tape-loop all over in his head. He'd give anything to go back and start again. He pushed the thought away from him, just smoked and concentrated on her ankles looped together, and hoped the pain hadn't reached his eyes. 'Course it wasn't really to do with him, not who he really was. He stole a glance at her, glowing golden under the kitchen light. "So what's the rest?"

"You remember the first time we fought together?"

"At your school? Not likely to forget that." Damn near killed her then, if it hadn't been for Joyce.

"No, not the first time you fought me. The first time we fought together."

He frowned. "At the Magic shop, you mean?" He barely remembered it; he'd been drunk most of the time he was there, and what little he did remember had to do with how much he'd wanted to shag Willow. Why was she bringing that up?

"No, that wasn't the first time. Remember? When you came and told me you wanted to 'save the world.' We wound up fighting some minion on my porch, and it was…" She grinned. "It was like we were the freaking Olympic pairs Slayage team, or something - you just knew exactly where to step, and when to punch, and god, Spike, I miss it. I'm tired of fighting all by myself. I want somebody who knows what they're doing, somebody who likes it. And let's face it, not too many people can fight like me." At his eyeroll, she replied tightly, "It's not conceited; it's the truth. But you fight like me. I miss it. I miss you."

He stared at her openly, his cigarette forgotten. She was serious. She really was coming back to him. Not because she loved him, not because - well, not why he wanted her to come back. But back all the same. He decided it didn't matter why, not really. "You mean it," he said, wonderingly.

She smiled up at him. "Does that mean we're going to go see the shaman?"

_Freedom. Damnation. Buffy._ "Yeah, let's go see him."

She leapt down from the counter, bending over the sofa to hit the remote and grab her purse. "Come on then."

Spike stared down at his bare and bloodied feet and naked torso. "Love, I really think I should put some clothes on, don't you?"

She loosed an explosive, impatient sigh. "Fine. Just - hurry."

"What's the rush, love? Shaman got an appointment elsewhere?"

"No. Well, maybe, I don't know, but he's not going anywhere. That's not the point. Go get dressed." She tapped her foot up and down on the blood-stained floor as he began to root through drawers in the kitchen.

"Spike, what are you doing?"

"Got to leave a note for Dawn; she'll want to know where we've gone."

She leveled a disbelieving look in his direction. "Leave a note? God, you are pussy-whipped, aren't you? Oh, mustn't upset poor Dawnie. Geez, Spike. I can't wait to get that thing out of you. Screw Dawn and come on."

"What do you care, Slayer? Won't take a minute." And it would save him hours of pain and suffering, save her from thinking he'd abandoned her like Buffy had done. He disappeared into the bedroom, hastily pulled on a clean shirt, retrieved his boots from the living room, and paused to compose a note. His hand hovered over the paper. What should he say? What could he? Should he tell her about the shaman? The chance to lose his soul a second time? In the end, with Buffy glaring daggers at him from the door, he settled for short and sweet.

_Dawn, I'll be back soon._

The double meaning wasn't lost on him.

***

She wouldn't wait for him to shower. Covered in a film of blood and booze, hair sticking crazily up, and she still wouldn't wait. That was just like her, of course - everything had to run on her timetable. If it'd been her covered in grime, they'd still be at the apartment. He ran his hand through his hair, slouched down in the passenger seat of her sports car.

She didn't talk much during the ride. He suspected she was having second thoughts, but it was hard to tell with Buffy. He didn't talk much, either. He couldn't get past the knowing - when Drusilla'd found him in that alleyway, he was too bloody fucking stupid to understand what it was she was asking for. He didn't know, and the not-knowing somehow made it better. Now? Now he knew exactly what he was doing. There'd be no saving grace for him, not ever again, because he'd tasted damnation, found redemption, and chose the pit once more. For love of a woman who'd never love him back. He rested his head against the window, and wondered what Dawn was doing.

It was an hour outside the city when they pulled up outside a meeting-hall, its sign obscured with tape, lights shining blindly on the red brick of its walls. Dust swirled up from the gravel lot as they came to a stop between two equally badly-parked trucks. He followed her to the door in a bit of a daze. Didn't quite know what to expect, but it wasn't what he saw when they opened the door.

Not some smoke-filled demon haunt, this. Well, not entirely accurate. The place was full of demons. But it bore little resemblance to any other demon bar he'd ever been in. Trendy colors, no-smoking signs, bright, cheerful lighting. Just like every other yuppie bar in town. Except for the cages. Six or eight, with gleaming steel doors, suspended behind the bar. Every single one of them full of people. Every single one dripping to the collection trough below.

Buffy headed for the back of the bar, Spike in tow. Near the rear of the building was a small door, with a tough-skinned demon standing guard. It smiled as they approached - well, he assumed it was a smile. It pulled back the flaps of skin over its needle-sharp teeth - hell, maybe it was a threat display. Friendly or threatening, all the same, wasn't it? It towered over them, its bulk mostly obscuring the door, but its voice was surprisingly thin, as it hissed, "Business?"

Buffy leaned close to exchange a whispered word, and it nodded, then disappeared through the door and up the stairs beyond.

"It'll be a minute; we should probably go sit down. Why don't you get us a drink?"

Obediently, he headed for the bar, trying to look anywhere but at the people penned in preparation for their slaughter. The scent of blood was thick in the air, and it set his belly to growling. 'Til he saw the boy. Laid out on a slab behind the bar, tied down, with a great tube stuck in his neck that led directly to the tap beneath the bartender's hand. Awake and alive and aware that he was slowly being bled to death. Somehow, Spike wasn't hungry anymore.

Instead, he ordered himself a whiskey, and Buffy one of those girly drinks she used to like so much. He thought she probably meant for him to order blood, but he didn't care. Alcohol was what he needed right now. He was fishing the cash out of his pocket, when he heard his name. Soft, almost a sigh, or moan, coming from the cages overhead.

"You're Spike, aren't you? You were there last night."

Unwilling, he raised his eyes to where she crouched, raw and oozing where strips of her skin had been peeled away, her hair matted down with blood. It took him a minute to recognize her - the girl Buffy picked up at the club. The one who looked like Dawn.

"Please," she begged, "please, you've got to help me get out of here. They're - they're hurting me. Please don't leave me here."

He stared down at the bar, its mirrored surface reflecting the drinks, the money…but not him. He clenched a shaking hand around the glass and rasped out past the lump in his throat, "Sorry, can't help you."

"Please! You tried to help me the other night, didn't you? I know you did! You tried to keep her from - I know you don't want to do this." Her voice shook, fear or hope, who could tell? "You have to help me. You're a good man. I know you are. I can see it. "

That was the trouble, wasn't it? They could all see it, all the others, the vamps and demons who edged away from where he stood at the bar, sour, condescending looks on their faces as he stupidly talked to the food. He let his demon face emerge, lifting it defiantly towards her. "I'm not a man at all," he said.

Her sobs followed him back to the table, and when the din of the crowd overwhelmed them, he'd have sworn he could hear them still.

Sitting beside Buffy was a smallish man, swathed in red. Dark magic swirled around him like a malignant shroud; you'd have to be head-blind to miss it. It made his hair stand on end. Small or not, that man was very, very dangerous. He wondered what Buffy'd had to promise in exchange for this little job.

He turned the chair around, straddled it. "So you're the shaman-y type that's supposed to fix me up?" Blue whorls of tattoos peeked out from beneath the man's garment; lying on the tabletop, his hands were small as any girl's. "Don't look like much," he lied. "Sure you can do the job? Don't want to get stuck with some half-assed de-souling here."

"I'm reasonably certain," the man replied. "But just to set your mind at rest - look at me." Spike met his eyes and watched the crawling blackness cover them.

"So that old saw about the eyes being the windows of the soul is true?" he joked nervously.

The shaman smiled. "More than you know." He gazed thoughtfully at Spike for a full minute, then said, "No problem. Give me an hour or two to prepare, and it will be done, providing my fee is in place."

"I already took care of it," Buffy replied off-handedly. "Anything you need us to do?"

"Wait here." He moved his chair back and began to stand, when a burst of noise came from the direction of the bar. All heads swiveled towards it, where a waitress was leading a small procession to a table of rowdy demons in the corner. They could hear her from where they sat. "Tiouvu?" she inquired. "Your friends wanted me to say 'Happy Pupation!' They ordered you xoxia!"

She stepped aside to reveal the struggling form of the woman from the cage. Lesley, his mind supplied. Her name is Lesley. There was scattered applause from the demons at the table, and Buffy edged forward in her chair, a hungry expression on her face.

"What's xoxia?" He was pretty sure he didn't want to know.

"Eyeballs," she replied without looking at him. "We ran into some of these out in LA - they like to eat people's eyeballs right out of the head. Pretty expensive here because they have to kill her tonight instead of keeping her for a couple months."

Spike watched in horrified fascination as the girl was forced down to where the table waited hungrily.

"Enjoy! And please, help yourself to the brains afterward - compliments of the house!" said the waitress brightly.

"This should be good," said Buffy.

The girl tried to fight, jerking helplessly against her captors, feet desperately seeking purchase to push her body away. A white, fleshy protuberance shot from between the lips of the demon, rippling like a sheet in a coming storm, covering her face. She began to scream, high-pitched shrieks that hurt more than his ears. Beside him, Buffy was nearly vibrating with excitement, grinning wide.

He tried to shut out the pain-filled cries, turn off the part of himself that was drowning in remorse. It didn't matter, it didn't. He wasn't a man, never had been, not for a long time, now, and soon he could be a monster again. Just like them. Just like Buffy. Then he wouldn't care that Buffy was licking her lips, excited by the torment of others, wouldn't care that he'd let that girl be tortured, when she begged him for help. Wouldn't care that at this moment, awash in regret, he couldn't imagine that he'd ever wanted to be that monster again.

Buffy cut her eyes toward him, blew him a kiss, the gesture so sweet and happy that he thought his heart would give way. He didn't see the waitress bring the chisel to the next table so they could crack the girl's skull.

The sound, the hopeless primal howl of pain made his guts twist with sickness; he couldn't keep from looking to where the floor around was spattered red with blood, her hands clawing at the air, unable to move, her ruined, empty sockets staring through him where he sat, ready to be damned for love. With a sickening crack, the demons pulled away a section of her skull. And Buffy laughed.

He didn't remember pushing from the table, running for the door. Chairs were knocked over, glasses fell to shatter on the floor; he could think of nothing save getting out. He hit the exit at a dead run, frantically gulping lungs full of the evening air, fighting to keep the whiskey he'd swallowed in his belly. He could still smell the stink of her fear, he was covered in it, and he barely made it to the ditch at the end of the road before the liquor forced its way out of him, before he collapsed into the mud. His body shook with sobs, and something else - not fear, not exactly, but something next to it.

What had he become?

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

Buffy stood over him, hands on her hips, the streetlight making a halo of her hair. He laughed bitterly. "You know, they always said the devil was beautiful. Guess they were right."

"What? Damn it, Spike, he said to wait there. So what the hell do you think you're doing out here?"

He turned his head, so she could see the moisture shining on his face, the damning tears that she'd always despised in him. "I'm baking a sodding cake. What's it look like I'm doing?"

The impatient sigh wasn't unexpected. "Oh, for god's sake, Spike, what is it now?"

"Sorry, love. Benefit of being all soulful is that you just don't get much of a kick out of vivisection. Torture just doesn't sit well these days, you know?"

She rolled her eyes but came to crouch beside him, brushing a hand softly over his hair. "Oh, is that all? Poor Spikey." She kissed him, not unkindly, and smiled. "Look, he already left, ok? Hour, hour and a half, tops, and you'll be all normal again. Well, normal as you get, anyway. And then, we can--"

"No." It surprised him, honestly, to hear the low determined tone.

"Don't worry, he won't screw it up. He's done it before, remember? No sweat."

"That's not what I meant, Buffy." He kissed her again, one more time, sugar sweetness still on her tongue. He struggled to his feet, wiping his arm around his face. He could feel the trails of filth streaked across his cheeks; only mirrored what he was inside. Dragged his thumb across her soft skin once more. "I'm not - not having it done. Call it off."

"WHAT?" Her puzzled frown gave way to blazing fury, and she shoved him backward, slipping in the muddy weeds. "You fucking asshole! Do you know what I had to go through to get him? Do you know how much it fucking cost me to even have him find out if he could do it? And now you're gonna play all noble? I don't think so. I didn't debone half of Los Angeles to have you chicken out. Tough shit!" She stalked back onto the gravel, scraping the mud from her shoes. "You're getting rid of that fucking thing if I have to cut it out of you myself. Now you get back in there, and you wash up and go sit the fuck down till I tell you it's time to go." She turned on her heel and headed back to the bar, confident that he'd do what he was told, like the good little bitch he was.

He watched her sling the door open and disappear inside.

It was a long way back to town. He started walking.


	8. Chapter 8

It was slow going, walking back. He figured Buffy would wait about ten minutes before she came out and found him gone. Fifteen, tops. There was no way that she wouldn't come looking for him once she figured out he'd left. Every time the distant headlights of an automobile crested the horizon behind him, he did a quick fade into the bushes, waited it out in the shadows. Cowardly, yeah. But then, he was still trying to work it all out - why he wanted it gone, why he'd still said no.

He was miserable the way he was; couldn't go on like this. Here she was, offering him the lot - an end to guilt, her company that he'd craved all these years - and he just couldn't let it go, not really even knowing what it was that he held onto. He hadn't thought what he'd do beyond reaching the apartment - he wasn't really sure he'd make it back to the city before the sun rose.

An hour down the road, he seemed little nearer than before, the city lights spread out twinkling before him. Figured. Nothing for him could ever be easy. A nearby rock provided a convenient perch, and he sat down to smoke, staring at the horizon just starting to change color, the dark just barely lifting at the corners of the world. Maybe he should just stay here. Burn it all away, let himself be taken down to hell. It had never been more tempting than tonight.

He tapped the ash into the wind, imagined it was his, dancing, spiraling down to the earth, the white shining against the blackness of the air. Beautiful. Poetic, even. Too bad he wouldn't be here to see it. He wondered what it would feel like, letting himself burn. Wondered, too, if anybody would even think to ask where he'd gone. Well, Dawn might. But she was young, and canny. She'd survive - and be better off without him. He lifted his chin defiantly. Least he could do was take it like a man.

So of course it came to nothing. He sat there, waiting patiently, for a good five, ten minutes. 'Bout the time he reached for another cig, it started to rain. Just pitter-patter at first, but gradually got harder and harder, 'til it was beating down on the earth like a drum, black clouds giving the lie to the coming sunrise. Fuck.

He sat there, water rolling off his hair and face, drenching his coat, trickling down inside his boots. It was just all too much. "What the FUCK is the matter with you!" he shouted to the sky. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!?! I did everything, everything to make it right, and it's never good enough, oh, no, got to kick him when he's fucking down - well, I'm DONE, do you hear me?"

He was pacing now, the anger flowing white hot from his soul, giving vent to all the rage he'd carried for years now. Damned to hell already, there was no point in softpedaling it now. "That git I was, that fucking nancy mama's boy," His voice trembled. "He did everything you ever asked. I did _everything_ I was supposed to do. Loved my Mum, went to church, did my work, feared YOU, and what did I get for it? Where were you in that sodding alley? Where were you for my Mother? Ok, so that wasn't want you wanted, I get it. Followed Dru, and got to be so good at what I did, so, so very good - and that wasn't good enough for you either! Saint or devil, make up your mind! What do you want me to be? TELL ME!"

He slid to the ground, legs betraying him at last, head bowed, but not in prayer. "Can't you even let me die?"

From behind him, he heard an unfamiliar voice. "Well, that could be arranged."

The voice was attached to a girl. Skinny, long-legged, her boyish hair slicked down to her head by the rain. She wore sturdy boots, some kind of lined nylon pants. Her voice was light, but her eyes – even in the dim light, he could see her eyes were hard. She was fifteen, maybe, certainly no more than seventeen. A mocking smile played around her mouth.

He knew a Slayer when he saw one. Perfect. Just bloody perfect. The laughter bubbled out of him, dropped him to his butt in the mud, made his shoulders shake.

"What are you laughing at?" she asked in a flat, angry voice.

"You, darling." He jabbed upwards with his thumb. "He certainly has a strange sense of humor." He wiped the water from his eyes, smiling ruefully. "You know how some folks just get everything they ever wanted? Appears I’m not one of them. Come to kill me, then? Get on with it, if you can."

She spat on the ground. "You things always think you’re so invulnerable, think nobody can kill you. Aren’t you in for a surprise."

He laughed again. "Oh, I am?"

"You must not know who I am." She postured with her stake, one hand on her hip. In the day, he could have killed her before she knew what hit her.

On his knees in the mud, he couldn't help but smile. "Love, I know what a Slayer looks like. I’ve seen a few in my time. You must not know who I am."

She scowled, her tiny white face darkening. "I know who you are. Spike. Isn’t that what they call you?"

"That it is. Doesn’t much fit these days, but what can you do?" He levered himself to his feet. "I’ve fought three Slayers, killed three Slayers. I don’t doubt that I could kill you, too." And he probably would. One more to add to his tally – At least their deaths didn’t eat at him in the night, though he never thought to add another. Soldiers, and enemies, and he took as much as he gave, nearly, and even without his soul, he’d honored them, in his way. He could just let her kill him, of course. Would solve a lot of problems. More than he deserved, he imagined, to have a bit of dignity in his passing.

But even as the thought flitted across his mind, he knew he wouldn’t. What kind of honor would that be for her, to kill someone who wouldn’t fight back? No, he’d fight, if it came to that. And probably win. Was that the lesson he was supposed to be learning, here? Damn the ambiguous signs and symbols. Dru could always figure for him on that count, but it always made him feel slow of study. He shook his head slightly. Probably meant nothing at all.

"I don’t want to kill you," he said.

"Well, no worries," she replied. "You’ll never get the chance."

In a flash, he was on her, stake knocked into the shadows, and her thin frame pinned beneath him. A faint smell of fear lingered. New. She had to be new, hadn’t figured out that he was weak and ill-fed, marked with wounds all over. She couldn’t throw him off because she thought she couldn’t. Stupid for her watcher to let her out like this, half-trained. Fangs ready, he bent to her throat, laying one thin scratch along her skin. The smell of her blood was like a glimpse of heaven, and he shivered as he dragged his tongue to catch the droplets that oozed through the break in her skin. "I don’t want to kill you," he repeated. "But I will if you fight me."

"Sure you don’t," she said acidly. "Just like you didn’t want to kill the others, right?" She struggled again, harder, her heart racing faster.

His laugh was cold. "Course I wanted to kill them. I enjoyed killing them. Liked it so much I sought it out, went after them special." His voice grew wistful. "Only decent fights I’ve ever had. After all, they might have killed me." He focused back on her face, twisted with anger and fear. "Just like you might kill me. But I doubt it."

She strained beneath him, trying to shift away, but her voice shook - from anger, or fear, he couldn't say. "The Council’s been hunting you for years now. If you’re so hot to fight Slayers, why were you hiding?"

His mouth turned downward. "Told you – I don’t want to kill you. Don’t want to kill anybody, anymore."

"Right." Her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Cause you’ve got a soul. Didn’t stop you from leaving a trail of bodies across the country. Or from turning Buffy Summers into a thing like you."

In a low, mournful voice, he said, "Thought it was what she wanted. I was wrong." He looked at the girl beneath him, nowhere near a woman, nowhere near ready to shoulder the burden of a short life and brutal death. He pushed away from her all at once, let her scramble for her stake. "Kill me. Do it. You’re right, you know. I’m still a monster. I still crave it, you know, still long for the blood and death and fear. Only now, now I lie in bed and it eats at me. Now I get to hate myself for it."

He could see her in the half-light, stake back in hand, surprise and fear all gone now. Now she’d kill him, and feel nothing but a passing sense of satisfaction, a mental tick mark against a long-term Council job finally completed. Not the way he imagined going, but he supposed it would do. Far better than some. His mind strayed, unbidden, to the girl in the bar, the one he’d failed to save. No, _refused_ to save. You could only fail if you bothered to try.

The stabbing guilt nearly dropped him; she wasn’t an anonymous victim, didn’t go quick. He didn’t even try. But maybe he could save the others. He saw the Slayer gather herself for the fight; shouted desperately in response. "Wait!"

She didn’t hesitate, not really, just changed the speed of her motion, cold rage writ large across her features. "Change your mind about the assisted suicide? Tough shit." Her fist was a blur in the air as she struck at him, threw him staggering back toward the road.

He’d forgotten how hard those little fists could hit; his head rang for a moment, even as he instinctively moved. "Dammit, you have to listen. There’s people – there’s a bar up the road." He ducked her second blow, moving away from her grim advance. "Demon bar. Dozens of folks strung up in cages. Get ‘em out. I couldn’t…" He trailed off. Couldn’t wasn’t the right word.

"I know where it is," she spat. "Where do you think I was going? Figured you’d both be there, especially when your little friend wouldn’t give you up."

He went cold all over. "Dawn?" Oh, god, she’d found Dawn?

"That tall chick? Thought she was some kind of ninja?" Her lips curved in a nasty smile. "Friend of yours? Ooops."

His heart cracked wide; gone, she was gone. His vision narrowed; no self-pity, no guilt, no thought for Buffy or himself. Just white-hot anger releasing the monster from whatever flimsy pen he kept it in. His demon face rippled outward with a roar. He’d kill her, tear her to pieces, scatter her filthy heart on the blacktop. He lunged toward her with a cry.

She met him with a kick, overbalanced on the rocky soil, and dropped backwards, rolling out of the way of his grasping hands. As he turned to follow, there was an explosion of light that made the Slayer dive behind a rock; it filled his eyes and ears, till there was nothing left but white-hot brilliance. There was a tearing sound, a sense of falling, and a single shaft of slicing pain that left him gasping helplessly.

And then, he was just an empty shell.

The Slayer might have been new, but she wasn’t an idiot. She was on him in a second, stake aimed at his chest, striking before his wits returned. Intent on him, she rode him to the ground, oblivious to what was happening beyond the immediate curtain of rain. So she never heard the car, or saw Buffy top the hill. When the rock bounced off her skull, she had just enough time to register surprise before slumping to the ground.

Spike’s vision hadn’t cleared, but he caught the comforting scent as Buffy dragged him to the car. The tires shot a shower of pebbles as she sped back towards town.

"You are way more trouble than you’re worth, Spike." Her voice was tight and angry. "What the hell did you think you were doing, fighting her? Killing yourself the slow way? Did you really think I was going to let you just run off?"

"I was…" His voice was halting, weary. "It’s gone."

"What’s gone?"

"I don’t feel it anymore, the guilt. It’s gone." There was only blessed stillness where once that endless, harping voice had beat at him, made him hate his own existence. "The soul, Buffy. It’s gone."

His tone was mournful; it must have given her pause, because her eyes cut towards where he slumped against the door. "Well, that's a good thing, right? The Shaman guy said something about a threshold period - you might be a little disoriented at first, but you'd remember. Eventually. Which you'd have known if you hadn't taken off like a big baby."

He slowly became aware of the road stretched out before them, the lights of the city slipping by, faster and faster. "Where are we headed?"

"Out of this one-horse town, and back to someplace with some real shopping. Why?"

"Turn around."

"For what? You're not thinking of going back there, are you? God, Spike, what is it with you and Slayers? It's not heroic, or anything, just for the record. It's just creepy." She spared a hand to stroke his hair. "Don't worry, you'll be strong soon enough. A few regular meals, a little fun, some sparring - god, I've missed fighting you - and you'll be as good as new. Better, actually, cause you'll be with me. Then we'll go back and kill her. Together. It'll be fun."

"I said, turn around." His eyes were hard, glittering from a strangely feverish face. "Back to the apartment, I need to go back. Do it."

"Oh, Spike, don't be-"

"Do it now, you stupid bitch! There's something I have to -- just do it." He spat the words at her, his mind whirling with pain and anger. Leave town? He wasn't going anywhere. He'd kill that little teenaged girl; he'd killed others. No quick warrior's death for her, though. He'd leave her a long smear on the road, and sprinkle Dawn's ashes over her mangled corpse.

It didn't take long. Two quick turns to the right, and there they were. The door hung crazily askew on its hinges; Spike was surprised the police hadn't been called. He supposed they would be come the morning. He'd have to take whatever he could carry when he went. They couldn't go back to the bar, either, not for a couple of days. The stairs felt like they went on forever; his feet didn't want to go up and see.

"What the hell do you need that was important enough to come back here for?" Buffy asked.

"Dawn. She - the Slayer - she said she killed Dawn. I want…" Wanted something of hers, a photo, a keepsake. Something to hide on him, remind him of his girl. He stood in the doorway, looking at the remains of his life. The furniture was in pieces, television smashed, cabinets gouged. The smell of blood hung heavy in the air. Bit gave as good as she got, it appeared. His voice was thick as he said, "She made a good vamp, didn't she? Loved the chaos, the destruction." Loved me, he thought, but didn't say. The only woman who had really loved him, he supposed.

"Oh, please, Spike." He could hear the eyeroll from where he stood. "She was just like you. So damn desperate to show off, have somebody like you. It's disgusting. I'm hoping this little soul-loss thing sucked the rest of the loser out of you." She shook her foot free of a tangle of cords. "Look, just get whatever you came to get and let's go."

"You don't care?" His fists clenched; he itched to hit something, kill somebody. "She's dead, and you don't care?"

"Yeah, she was my made-up sister and all around pain in the ass. I should care…why? Tell me what you're looking for, so I can help you find it and we can book it before little Miss Slayer 2033 gets back over here."

"Ashes. I'm looking for her ashes. Dawn's. I'm gonna….gonna make that bitch pay when I catch her."

"Oh, god. You and Angel, with your big artsy gestures." With a shake of her head, she strode past him to the hallway, heading for the bedroom. He saw her stop at the door, and she turned, a sly smile on her face. "This might do you for a souvenir, maybe. Kind of big to fit in a sandwich bag, though."

He didn't want to see. He was afraid to see. Buffy was smiling, that cruel, happy smile he'd spent so long repenting. At least that part was over. Unwillingly, he moved to the bedroom door.

The smell hit him first; it was overwhelming. And everywhere that his eyes looked, there was blood. Spattered on the walls, and dripped along the floor, sludgy footprints circling the room, half-dried in sticky blotches. Whose blood, he didn't know. Didn't want to know, to think about it. He shoved the grief down underneath his rage. His gaze swept the floor, looking for that tell-tale grey film, the remnants of the girl that he'd had. He didn't see the body on the bed. Not till Buffy gave him a shove, and he stumbled into the room, dragging his boots through the markings. He caught hold of the dresser, and he saw.

Saw the pole, first. It ran her through like she was a pig on the spit, all the way through bedclothes that were soaked, still wet, with blood. Thin limbs, ghost-white, trailed off the edges of the bed. The bed was littered with wooden crosses, atop red blisters where they'd burned for hours now. Great patches of her hair were missing, where it had been ripped out by the handful, and her face was bruised, and swollen. But still he recognized her: Dawn.

The keening, groaning sound that forced its way out of his throat he'd made only once before, in the predawn streets of Prague. He was there in an eyeblink, reaching desperately for her. She was cold, so cold, and he shivered at the touch. The pole was pulled out, thrown hard against the wall; she'd so little blood left inside her that the wound barely oozed after its removal.

He felt coldness on his face; he was crying, couldn't stop crying. "Dawn, sweet bit, come on, wake up," he whispered. He had to get her out, get her some blood, find a safe place for her to heal. Over his shoulder, he snapped out orders. "Get some towels, and a change of clothes. There's bandages in the bathroom. Bring them to me, and then take her clothes to the car. I'll…" His voice broke. "I'll wrap her up and get her in the car. We've got to get her out." He lifted her from the bed; crosses slithered to the floor. She hung, unmoving, in his arms, his face buried against her shoulder.

From behind him, there was silence, and then a drawled response, "You've got to be kidding me." There she stood, pert nose wrinkled in disgust, and arms folded tightly across her chest. "For god's sake, Spike. We don't have time. The little bitch will be suiting up and coming for us just as soon as she shakes off that headache. We've got to get the hell out of town and find someplace for you to get ready. We can't be dragging around a big corpse; it'll slow us down. What, did the de-souling brain-damage you, or something?"

"I'm not leaving her." He gripped her tighter, felt her blood soaking through his t-shirt. "She's not dead yet; she can be fixed."

"Yeah, maybe in six or eight years. Or, I don't know, maybe never. How many years did you drag around that slut Drusilla? Thirty, forty years? Screw that. Put her down and let's get the hell out of here."

"You'd abandon her, wouldn't you? Just pitch her out like garbage. Well, I won't. She's mine, she's only ever been mine. I won't leave her to die." She'd leave Dawn, course she would. Like she left before, like she left him every single time. Never did care for anyone but herself, even when she was alive. He'd been a bloody fool to think that anything would make a difference. "Go on then," he grated. "Get out. We haven't needed you for years, we don't need you now."

"If I wasn't dumb enough to argue with you, I'd already be gone. She's been squeezed out like an empty yogurt container, Spike. There isn't enough there to keep her brain on-line, even. She'll be a fucking vegetable for years." There was a long, tense silence between them. "Fine. Get caught for all I care. I'm out of here. When you get over your fucking martyr complex, look me up, ok?"

She turned on her heel and was gone.

He made a sound something like a choking sob as he lifted her from among the crosses. Carried her to the living room, to lie on the couch, and ran for bandages. His fingers were clumsy as he tried to open them; they slipped from his hand, just as the door flew open. It was Buffy, her eyes shining yellow.

"She's here, damn it. Coming up the street. She'll be here in a few minutes. Where are your weapons? We're going to have to fight it out."

He stared at her for a long moment, but said nothing, just stood hovering over Dawn's still form.

"Are you deaf? Weapons? Where?"

"Hall closet."

She flew after them, wrenching the door open and reaching for the largest axe within. He watched her absently, almost as though she were someone else, someone he didn't know, and then looked down at Dawn's battered body. He made a decision.

She weighed almost nothing, light as a feather, though her long legs dangled over his arms to bounce against his thighs. He ran down the hall, left the door open on Buffy's search for weapons. To the right, third door. The only neighbors left who would speak to Dawn, tried to talk her into finding god, or some such. He hoped they were as stupid as he'd always thought they looked. Pounding wildly on the door, he began to shout. "Help! Please, god, help me!"

The door opened just a peek, the chain crossing the concerned face within. "Please, help us! It's my girl, she's hurt - hurt really bad, I think she's dying! Please!" He didn't have to manufacture the urgency or fear; he was sick with it. There was a whispered conference, and the door was thrown wide. The thin woman - Angie, his mind supplied - said, "Oh, my god, of course, come in!" She shut and locked the door behind her. He was babbling, spinning some story about men that he owed money, and how they'd tracked him here, threatened them, broken in to murder Dawn. He saw the wife touch Dawn's body, shake her head.

"I'll call the ambulance," she said, and left the men alone.

Her husband (Walter? Will?) took him aside, one hand light on Spike's dark sleeve, to whisper the dreadful news, _your girlfriend_ is dead. Teeth sharp and eyes aglow, Spike said, "Yeah, I know."

He caught the wife as she dialed the phone. One quick blow to the back of the neck, and she crumpled, out like a light but heart still pumping. He carried her swiftly to the bed, and held her over Dawn, slit her throat so that the blood ran down into Dawn's mouth. Might not help much, but anything she could get inside could only help her. He drank some, too, felt his body healing and the leaden weight of his limbs begin to lift. Now he was ready to go.

He showered, changed some of his clothes. He wouldn't leave the coat, but his bloodstained clothes would surely bring attention. He washed Dawn's face, stripped her ruined clothing and bound her puncture wound with clean, dry towels and tape. The wife had been about Dawn's size; he dressed her in the loosest outfit he could find. The neighbor's wallet and car keys were easily found; they been so neat and clean. Always wanted to help Dawn, that's what she said. Well, now they had.

The sounds of battle were apparent even before he opened the door. This wasn't Sunnydale; the police would be here any minute, and it wouldn't go well for any of them if they were here when the cops showed. He slipped out, Dawn cradled in his arms, and slid warily down the first step. In their old apartment, two women moved, perfectly matched, trying to kill each other. Buffy caught their scent; he knew she did, because as he went down the stairs, he heard her voice, raised in fury, "Spike, you asshole, get in here!"

He didn't hesitate. Down the stairs, easing Dawn into the back seat, covering her with a blanket against any stray shaft of sun. The sky above was flat and grey, rain still sheeting down. He'd find a parking garage to hide them until tonight, and then they'd move someplace far away. Someplace he could take care of his girl.

He didn't see the stake rammed home, Buffy's features dissolving till nothing remained but dust. He was long past caring how the battle ended. Either way, he was leaving with Dawn. There was supposed to be a hellmouth in Cleveland. He knew how to make her better.


End file.
